


And Now We See Each Other Clearly

by DoreyG



Category: Matthew Shardlake Series - C. J. Sansom
Genre: Ableist Language, Characters falling in love with each other for each other, Community: kink_bingo, Exposure, It probably didn't take them that long actually, M/M, Punching prejudice in the face, Technical case-fic, characters with disabilities, references to past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after the events of "Dark Fire" Shardlake and Barak are drawn into another case: this time involving an escaped daughter with a withered arm, an emotionally abusive father and some stolen jewellery. And (in the tradition of life, the universe and possibly everything) find that it exposes a few of their own feelings along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Now We See Each Other Clearly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Exposure square of my Kink_Bingo and kind of... Exploded a bit. Involves both emotional exposure and physical exposure, I think. And was honestly not meant to get to 20000 odd words (oh dear).

“You know,” Barak says casually, looking up from some Latin copies one slow day in early September, “it occurs to me that I’ve been working for you for two months now and I _still_ haven’t seen you with your shirt off.”

“Yes,” he replies absently, still bent over his own work (a messy case, father against daughter) in the late summer sun.

…Wait. _What_?

Barak, miraculously, manages to choke back a laugh when he shoots up almost fast enough to brain himself on one of the rickety cabinets above his head. Even valiantly represses giggles as he slowly lowers himself back into his chair, “you alright?”

“Yes, fine,” he answers shortly, rubbing his head in a faintly embarrassed way “…But, Barak, _what_ -?”

“It was just a thought,” the man has already returned to his work, a faint smirk _still_ gracing the corners of his wide mouth, “just a musing. Nothing to worry about, _sir_.”

He stares for another moment.

Rubs his head again, and drums his free hand against the desk, “but-?“

“It’s no matter to me that you’re a hunchback, don’t you remember?” Barak is bent fully back over his desk now, and he can’t tell a single _thing_ , “I just thought you might start to trust me. That’s all.”

“…I-“ he starts, not quite sure _how_ to feel.

“Just wondering,” when Barak finally, _finally_ , looks up again his smirk has somehow grown wider – glinting in the dusty light through the window, “aren’t you supposed to be looking up the Skermer case?”

…He glances down at his ink splattered papers, the pot having dropped with his sudden movement, “shit!”

“Thought so.”

 

\--

 

He excuses himself a half hour later, with a babbled excuse about the library and yet another smirk from Barak’s curving mouth, rushes into the still hot courtyard with the air practically catching (sharp and bladed) in his lungs.

Luckily there’s nobody around.

Luckily he can slump against the almost cool war, and breath there until he starts thinking and reasoning and almost feeling _human_ again (properly human, not the odd kind of superman he sometimes feels he could be under Barak’s far too sharp gaze).

…What the _fuck_ was that about?

 

\--

 

“I should probably go to the daughter herself,” he announces imperiously the next morning – after they’ve both risen and he’s fondly watching Barak spoon porridge into his mouth (sluggishly, since the man’s reverted to his natural morning-hating state now they don’t have to risk their lives on a daily basis), “check her side of events.”

“Isn’t it simple enough?” Barak asks, swallowing so fast that it’s a (thankful) miracle he doesn’t choke on his own tongue, “she stole her father’s property, he wants it back.”

“Yes, but…” He hesitates. Makes a face.

“Ah, that bloody lawyers intuition yet again,” Barak’s smirk is starting to become imprinted on his eyes, hovering there no matter where he may look, “I don’t blame you. For my money the man sounded like an-“

“Arsehole,” he finishes, with a bitten back smirk of his own, “thank you, Barak.”

The man only laughs, flops back with a pat of his full (still firm) belly, “I only hope his daughter is nicer than him.”

“Ah,” he sighs, rises to his feet in a rather resigned way – for he’s starting to enjoy these breakfasts, far more than he ever thought he would at the start, “unfortunately she’s likely to be _too much_ like him.”

“You are _such_ a pessimist.”

“A realist!”

“ _Pessimist_.”

“Barak, that is highly disrespectful,” he huffs, for he _knows_ (with a certain sense that grows up between people in their situation) that he can’t win “…I’ll be back around noon, I should think. Copy up a few property cases before I get back?”

“Against Bealknap?”

“Some of them.”

“Of course, then,” Barak’s grin grows from his smirk, a far nicer twist of his lips that has him beaming in return “…Sir?”

“ _Good_.”

…He pauses for a second in the door, before he goes. Hesitates. Almost turns back to face Barak and open his mouth-

Why did you want to see me without my shirt?

Why do you want to see my back?

Why-?

He shuts his mouth, carries on walking. _Knows_ that Barak is watching him every step of the way.

 

\--

 

…It _isn’t_ that he doesn’t trust Barak.

He actually trusts the man too much, he muses as he rides past the inn, they’ve only been working together for two or so months ( _less_ than two or so months, If you count their long separation) but he would already trust the man with his life. _Has_ trusted the man with his life on several occasions.

Then what-?

He pulls up short to allow a beggar child to run past, gives himself the (much needed) time to think the problem through.

He _definitely_ trusts Barak, more than any other person in the world, so it’s not _that_.

He _knows_ that Barak wouldn’t use him against him, wouldn’t start laughing the moment he stripped and run off to inform the rest of London, so it’s not _that_.

He isn’t _attracted_ to Barak, doesn’t care so much for his opinion, so it’s not-

…He halts suddenly, only a few seconds after moving again, stares into space as goodwives stare and stallholders yell and the beggar child pauses to laugh back at him in _such_ a knowing way.

For it’s that.

It’s _that_.

 

\--

 

He’s still caught by the realization when he reaches the tiny house in the lower end of London. Barely manages to dismount safely, tie Genesis to a sturdy looking pole and squelch across to the unprepossessing black door.

The door that, luckily, opens at the first knock, “what-?”

The man is in his mid twenties. Scrawny. With a nose vaguely reminiscent of that rogue Toky who once almost had him dead. He pauses at the sight of the lawyers robe, settles against the doorframe and clears his throat awkwardly “…Who are you, then?”

“Matthew Shardlake,” he hears himself say, _still_ almost like he’s in a dream, “Harry Skermer’s lawyer-?”

And suddenly the door is being shut in his face. Only the topical application of a foot saving him from a sharp stranding on a muddy street, “hey!”

“Go away,” the man says through gritted teeth, still throwing his full weight behind the door (and maybe he should’ve brought Barak, _Barak_ … He definitely shouldn’t have brought Barak), “we will not abide _his_ name in our house and never will.”

“But-“

“ _Go_!”

“I am not here to cause trouble,” he says desperately, trying not to fall over and ruin everything (trying not to think of Barak’s _face_ ), “please. I’m only here to learn Hannah’s side of the story.”

“You lie.”

“I don’t! I-“

“Nobody supported by him has _ever_ wanted to hear Hannah’s side of the story,” the man _snarls_ … But at least eases off a little, draws back slightly so the bones in his foot don’t _screech_ , “they’ve pretended, and hurt her with the pretending, but they’ve never _truly_ cared. So don’t you come in here with your falsehoods and your lies and your bought back-“

He stares silently, _gawpingly_ , for a moment.

“-Because we won’t buy it,” as the man’s eyes fill with furious tears, hurt tears as if bloody memories have been invoked, “we won’t _buy_ it, lawyer man. Not anymore.”

…The poor man.

“I honestly didn’t come here for her father,” he says, gently – for he’s always prided himself on being acceptable at gentleness, “and my back isn’t fake, honestly, you _couldn’t_ fake such a thing… I came for myself, came to see her side of the story, came to talk to her as an _equal_. Not as some creature to trick and tangle with.”

…The man simply draws back. Gives him a silent look.

“Is she-?”

The man opens his mouth-

“Let him in, Johnny,” is interrupted by a soft, female voice echoing from within the house. A gentle one, “it can do no harm.”

They exchange a tense look for a few moments more.

…The man, Johnny, steps aside – and gestures him in with narrow eyes.

Inside the house, somehow, seems even _smaller_ than it did out front. He’s not a tall man, would be nowhere _near_ tall even if his back was completely straight, but even _he_ has to duck to avoid scraping his head bloody and raw upon the ceiling.

He spares a thought, another one, on how Barak would fare in this place.

…He decides that it’s best not to think about Barak. As Johnny darts ahead of him with a sharp glance back and he gets his first look at the mysterious Hannah.

…Blonde.

Pretty, in a careworn sort of way.

With a withered arm held carefully to her chest.

“Are you sure?” Johnny asks her, moving to her side and (unconsciously) shielding that arm with the weight of his body, “Hannah-“

“I’ll be fine,” her voice is soft when she speaks, the faintest burr of a London accent shading her words.

“But-“

“ _Fine_ , my love.”

…And Johnny steps aside, reluctantly.

He slowly walks forwards, into the gap. And, feeling somehow humbled by Johnny’s obvious protectiveness, bows deeply – ignoring the aching strain in his back.

“There’s no need,” and he can hear the smile in her voice, even before he forces himself upright and resists the urge to press a hand to his aching spine, “especially since that must ache at least a little what with your back. Brother Shardlake, yes?”

He nods, tries not to look too surprised at the sympathetic note in her voice, “Hannah Skermer?”

“Dootson,” she glances fondly across at Johnny. Who, despite drawing obediently back, is still glaring fiercely across the room, “recently wed.”

“Does your father know?”

“Did he tell you?”

…He shakes his head, slowly.

“Then I don’t think he does,” Hannah laughs softly, still gently… Allows her head to tilt, her smile to drop just slightly, “are you here because of him?”

“He says not,” Johnny growls before he can even get anywhere near a reply, “but I don’t fully trust that. He’s a lawyer, Hannah. They’re used to lying and ‘disassembling’ and a thousand other words that mean not telling the truth in a variety of-“

Hannah holds her hand firmly up for silence.

…Johnny obeys her again, dropping his head and looking faintly guilty into the bargain.

“…I am working on his case, yes,” he says quietly, gratefully as she arches a slow eyebrow at him, “but I am not here _for_ him. I come only to hear your side of the story, and will make up my own mind from there.”

“Ah,” there is a long and silent pause, one that they all obey this time. Hannah looks faintly thoughtful as she rests her chin on her hand “…If you are his lawyer then I presume you know the base facts, yes? And the things he is accusing me, his only child, of?”

“Yes,” he admits, softly.

“ _Ah_ …” She smiles slightly, bitterly. The look of a woman betrayed by so many, “then perhaps it’d help to list those first?”

“Alright,” he has little room to disagree, “your father, Harry Skermer – a merchant with reasonably high connections, has accused you, Hannah Dootson, of stealing several pieces of jewellery in his possession. He demands that these objects be returned to him immediately. And also demands that you face the most painful death permissible by the law.”

“Death-!” Johnny starts forwards with his fists clenched.

Starts back at a _look_ from Hannah, shifts but keeps his place as she turns back to him with a heavy sigh, “this jewellery: two gold necklaces, one pair of gold earrings and one silver locket with a picture of a woman in it?”

He stiffens just slightly “…Yes?”

“They all belonged to my mother, before she died in childbirth with me,” and Hannah’s smile is even bitterer now, growing harsher by the second, “I must’ve been such a disappointment to my father, such a great _shock_. The baby that killed his wife: not only a girl, but a girl with such a terrible deformity. I’m surprised he ever recovered from the shock.”

“The bastard didn’t deserve you,” Johnny starts forwards from his corner again, gets to her side this time in a few jumpy strides, “he _didn’t_ , Hannah, he-“

“I know, my love,” she smiles at the man so fondly that he feels faintly uncomfortable, turns back to him only after a long moment has passed “…Tell me, Brother Shardlake: did your parents ever resent you for your twisted back?”

“…I-“

“Ever make you feel inferior?”

“I-“

“Ever tell you to your face that you were _nothing_ and, as a result, were likely to be loved by absolutely nobody?”

…He spares a brief thought, despite his self imposed ban, on how he _wishes_ that Barak was here.

But he is a strong man, and Barak’s eyes are encouraging in his memory, and he is a _smart_ man, and Barak is faintly smiling – so he draws himself up and awkwardly clears his throat over the snap of her eyes “…I’m not sure what this has to do with the case, goodwife Dootson.”

“Just a bit of background, Brother Shardlake,” she, at least, stops easily – sits back in her chair with an almost apologetic sigh, “for the relationship between me and my father. I left his house three months ago on less than good terms. Ran off with Johnny here, a person who _did_ love me. I haven’t spoken to my father since that day, and he has made no effort to speak to me.”

He nods just slightly, shaky with relief, gestures for her to go on.

“I did not take anything with me when I left my father’s house, only the clothes on my back, but he still acted like I’d stolen his whole world from him,” with bitterness in her eyes, _yes_ \- such bitterness, but a strong voice that cannot be denied, “I never thought he’d _care_ , considering that he’d spent twenty odd years professing his hatred of me at every opportunity, but yet he swore revenge on me. Told me that I’d _pay_ for killing his good wife, no matter that he’s had three more since, and then leaving him so abominably.”

“So…?”

“Two months later, just as we were getting settled here, a constable showed up to inform us of what was being said against me,” she shrugs again, “It was not hard to work out that _that_ was the revenge he had spoken of.”

…He falls silent again.

“For I did not take his jewellery, Brother,” her lip lifts slightly on the word ‘his’, he catalogues it away for later, “the only sin I have committed is refusing to listen to his poison words against me. And this is simply his retribution: trying to bring me to hang for a ‘crime’ unpunishable by any court of law.”

He keeps silent for a moment more.

“For the ‘crime’ of rising above my apparent station,” she only raises her chin at him, gives him a look of such flashing pride, “would you persecute me for that, brother? Would you persecute me for that when, according to him, you have done exactly the same thing yourself?”

…He finally shifts again, “you are sure you did not take the jewellery?”

And she sighs, settles back in her chair with a restraining hand rested on Johnny’s wrist, “yes.”

“Not even by accident?”

“To take it by accident would’ve been impossible. I am innocent in all regards” …There’s a faint flicker in his eyes. He draws himself up but dares not to mention it.

“Thank you for this, Goodwife Dootson,” simply nods instead, starts to back towards the door with a carefully weaving effort not to headbutt the ceiling, “I must warn you that I will be speaking to your father. But this was very helpful, and it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“A pity we can’t say the same-“

“We _can_ say the same, Brother Shardlake,” Hannah corrects Johnny, with a sharp look that says more than words ever could, “and I understand. I only hope that this meeting has given you a fuller view of things.”

“It certainly has.”

“Then that is all we can wish for,” her faint smile is soft, almost pretty as she tilts her head to the door, “farewell, then. And I hope that our next meeting will be somewhere outside the courts.”

“Farewell” …And he’s mildly surprised to find that he hopes the same, as he ducks out of the door and only glances back once – to see Hannah and her husband embracing in a faintly terrified way.

 

\--

 

The case is complicated enough, they usually are at the start, to fascinate him for half the ride back home. For Hannah says that she didn’t take the goods and her father insists that she did and there’s obviously quite terrible bitterness on both sides and- and-

It’s on Newgate street that he falls back to thinking on Barak. And finds himself so deeply caught that he couldn’t possibly get out if he climbed for a thousand days.

…He’s attracted to Barak.

It seems a sinful thing to admit, as he rides near St Paul’s Church, but it’s true. Undeniably true. _Passionately_ true as he allows himself to dwell on Barak’s hands and Barak’s face and Barak’s kindness underneath that rough exterior… And flushes.

So.

Yes.

Attracted to Barak.

And this, despite how he’s tempted to deny it, is _not_ a new thing. He thinks he’s been in- attracted to Barak since the first few days of their acquaintance. Since he agreed to go down the Wentworth’s well, or saved him from death, or willingly took his shirt off and sprawled invitingly upon his bed.

…He even forces himself to admit, as he twists up Snow Hill, that _that_ is a dream that kept him warm – all that time up at his father’s farm, walking boredly and meeting absolutely nobody else.

And, on the back of that admission-

…Another thing.

He isn’t just attracted to Barak, doesn’t just feel the uncertain emotions of some youth. He’s fond of the man, cares for the man, is actually and properly in-

In-

…In _love_ with the man. And he shudders as he rides up Holborn Hill. For he’s in deep, properly _deep_ , and somewhere along the way Barak’s desires became terribly important to him.

Barak’s disgust, if the man was ever to see him without his shirt.

He sighs, and slowly turns poor Genesis (guarded, he suspects, by acquaintances of Hannah) home.

 

\--

 

“Have you even _moved_ , Jack?”

Barak glances up from where he’s still, _yes_ , sitting in exactly the same position he was that morning. Laughs a little (charmingly) as if that’s some grandly amusing joke, “do you think so little of me?”

He arches an eyebrow, biting back a chuckle (despite… Well, _everything_ ).

“Tch, such a lack of trust!” But Barak is still grinning, fondly shaking his head, so he must understand the implications without the slightest hint, “as it happens I _have_ moved once or twice – just to get all the many Bealknap cases copied up.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Okay, okay, there were only three,” Barak pouts for a moment, a very fascinating moment “… _Only_. Why on earth do you keep associating with that arsehole?”

“God knows,” he replies, so honestly that it almost hurts (and _still_ holding back that chuckle, because it seems almost habit by now), “anything else?”

“Two other cases.”

“ _Really_?”

“Both boring property shit,” Barak shrugs casually, his broad shoulders filling out his shirt, “Madden and Tyler House. Nothing complicated, just gits being absolute gits to each other.”

“Boring?” He can only focus on the first part of that, raising his eyebrow again (and biting back and impressed smile now, for habits can always change a little), “Honestly, Jack, you have the attention span of a five year old.”

Barak gives a good, hard (attractive) _cackle_ at that…

And a wink, something so far from innocent that he might spontaneously combust at it, “’s lucky that that’s the only thing about me that’s five years old.”

Ah-

…Ah.

And suddenly he’s bright scarlet, as all the memories (and he means _all_ \- including that sudden moment at his father’s farm where the curves of Honor turned into the firm lines of Barak halfway through a twist of his wrist) come flooding back at once.

Barak stares at his spluttering face for a momnt, seeming oddly… Tempted?

But soon takes pity upon him, and moves on with only the briefest (shudder inducing) lick of his lips “…So, what about you?”

…Him?

Oh, yes – him! He is a person! A lawyer type person! “I- I assume that you’re talking about Hannah Skermer?”

‘No, I’m talking about how you clearly just remembered that you came gasping to my face barely two months back,’ He half expects Barak to reply for a few seconds… But the man takes mercy again, only leans back with a smile and a returning arch of his eyebrow, “ay.”

He can only feel relieved “…Goodwife Dootson now.”

“ _Really_?” Okay, _mainly_ relieved – as that fascinated expression in Barak’s eyes reminds him just _why_ he came so hard, “recently wed, I assume?”

“You’d assume correctly,” he answers easily, trying to shove _every single damned memory_ away, “without the permission of her father at that.”

“That arsehole,” Barak repeats his opinion, falls silent for a long and frowning moment “…Would he even approve?”

“I doubt it,” has to be admitted, for he hasn’t stopped being a realist (and _not_ a pessimist) since this morning, “but that wouldn’t be because of her husband, who seems perfectly nice and completely devoted to her… No, I got the impression that he’d never approved of _anything_ she did.”

“A pushy parent?” Barak muses thoughtfully.

“Or a disgusted one” …He hates to break that bubble, but it has to be done, “she has a twisted arm. And that’s most of the reason for his constant disapproval.”

“…Oh.”

They stare at each other for a few long moments. Barak seems oddly and entirely outraged, despite never having met a single one of the parties involved, “The bastard has always made her feet like nothing, Hm? Despite her not being able to do a single thing about it?”

“Correct,” he mutters, faintly stunned by the ferocity in the man’s eyes “…She also said that she didn’t take the jewellery.”

“Who could blame her even if she had?”

“ _Barak_.”

“Sorry, sorry. Not very lawyerly, I _know_ …” Barak waves it away, completely unrepentant as he tilts his head and gives one of his familiar smiles, “do you believe her?”

He hesitates for a moment under that gaze, that almost _sinful_ smile “…Not entirely.”

“Then…?”

“I think we should meet with the father again,” he decides, only a touch guiltily and blushing _again_ (God, he really is starting to act like some _youth_ ) at the rumble Barak gives, “confront him with the things she accuses him of, and see his response to them.”

“Tell him of her marriage?”

He hesitates for another moment, remembering the tender way they leant together “…I think that’ll only complicated matters.”

And Barak’s renewed smile, that charming and utterly disorientating thing, is _entirely_ worth it, “no?”

“No.”

“Excellent!” And the man _laughs_ , slumps back in his chair again in a way that almost (does) make him want to shuck his heavy robe and slide into that welcoming lap, “we’ll see the arsehole on the ‘morrow, then?”

“…You’ll come with me?”

“Of course!”

“Yes, then,” he barely shakes the temptation away, settles into his own chair and firmly digs his hands into the table to stop them from lunging for Barak’s thighs, “now: what should we do until the meeting?”

…And Barak, who has watched him move away and ever so firmly settle down, tilts his head in a tempted way for a long moment.

But, before he can even _reach_ scarlet, it’s gone – and the man is pulling several papers off his high pile, spreading them across the table with the most innocent of smiles, “Help me with finishing off the Bourne case?”

“It’d be my pleasure,” he smiles, still feeling faintly as if all the air has been punched from his lungs, and settles down to work.

 

\--

 

_Barak is sitting on his bed when he gets back to his room. It’s odd, since he just left the man downstairs, but he doesn’t question. Simply shuts the door behind him and turns with a smile, “Jack?”_

_The smile is returned as Barak leans forwards, rest his muscular arms on his thighs with the casualness that has become his trademark, “why don’t you want me to see you naked?”_

_He blinks. Suddenly finds himself on the bed besides Barak, his hands folded in his lap, “that’s a rather strange question.”_

_Barak’s eyes are bright when they look at him. The brightest that he’s ever seen or will ever want to, “is it?”_

_“Yes,” he hesitates for a moment, separates his hands and presses them down into the sheets – spares barely a thought for the lack of texture he finds there, “I thought you only wanted to see my back.”_

_He thinks Barak chuckles but he’s not quite sure. Most of his world is too bright for coherent thought at the moment, “what did I say?”_

_“You said…” the words come clearly to him, like a burning branch through the dark night, “you said that you’d been working for me for two months yet you’d never seen my shirt off.”_

_“And I also expressed my severe disappointment over the fact,” Barak_ definitely _laughs this time – now facing him, those long legs tucked up easily underneath, “I didn’t mean your_ back _.”_

_He hesitates for a moment, turned in the same way, “I just assumed…”_

_“I don’t care about that, I don’t want to see_ that _,” and Barack’s hand is soft on his face, gently caressing his cheek as he leans in, “I want to see_ you _.”_

_“Oh,” he breathes, and allows his eyes to hover shut just before Barak’s lips cover his…_

And he blinks awake to the harsh dawn light, Barak’s snores echoing down the corridor.

 

\--

 

‘Do you really not care about my back?’ He wants to ask the next morning, despite the fact he _knows_ it was a dream, as he watches Barak spoon porridge sleepily into his mouth yet again, ‘do you really just want to see me? Do you really _desire_ me in that way?’

…He doesn’t.

He only taps his fingers on the table until Barak looks up and lets out a cavernous yawn, one that could possibly provide a glimpse all the way down into his stomach, “should we go now?”

“As you wish.”

He smiles despite himself.

Within half an hour Barak is on Sukey and he’s on Genesis and they’re leaving the house. He talks as they ride, keeps darting subtle sideways glances at Barak’s sleepy face and ruffled hair (keeps wondering what it’d be like to ruffle it with his fingers, if he’s perfectly honest).

“Mr. Skermer has arranged to meet us at the inn,” he says instead of any comment on those very attractive things, steering Genesis carefully down the street.

“Accommodating of him,” Barak only yawns, passing a slow hand over his face.

…He can only hum at that, carefully dodge a hanging instead of simply staring at Barak and getting knocked down into the mud, “not as accommodating as he could be. He doesn’t live _that_ far away.”

“Oh,” Barak ponders this for a long moment, still entirely asleep, “do you think he would come if he did?”

He gives Barak a rather obvious look at that, or a look that he hopes is somewhere _nearing_ obvious given his inability to stop staring and Barak’s inability to actually wake up, “I’m afraid he doesn’t seem the type to make an effort for other people.”

Barak huffs softly, falls silent after that… Which leaves him to watch the man as they ride the last few paces. Study and absorb and- and-

Dream.

…They dismount after riding into the courtyard, and hand their reins to the immediate boy standing eagerly to attention. The office door is already open as they approach it, a harried looking Skelly hovering there and nervously rubbing his hands as he waits.

“Oh, master Shardlake-!”

“Skelly?” Barak asks, jerking out of his almost doze with a sharp blink (jerking _him_ out of his dreams with the same movement), “what’s wrong?”

“A _man_ , sir, a-!”

“Our client,” he realizes within an instant, grabs Barak’s wrist before the man can draw his doubtlessly fine sword (and use it in a doubtlessly fine way, with his muscles rippling at the exertion…), “at least I hope. It’d be rather inconvenient if murderers were after us _again_.”

“Inconvenient,” Barak repeats softly, and doesn’t jerk his wrist away “…I suppose that’s the right word for them. They wouldn’t survive for long enough to become anything else.”

…He stares, though he knows that he should just let go and go in, “oh?”

“I’d kill them within an instant if they got anywhere near you.”

…Oh.

 _They_ stare at each other for a moment, as Skelly keeps innocently flailing at their side.

It’s only when he starts _squawking_ again that the spell finally breaks. And allows him to let go, and step hurriedly in the office before Barak can see his red face or notice the sudden heat in his eyes, or-

Best not to think of that.

Harry Skermer, presumably Harry Skermer now he can see straight again, is a bulky man in his late forties. It soon becomes apparent, as he turns away from the desk and steps into the light of the window, that he has both his daughter’s nose and his daughter’s mouth – but his hair is the colour of shit under the sunlight, and his jaw is far harder than anything Hannah ever displayed.

“Harry Skermer?” He asks, just to make sure.

And immediately the man straightens up – gives a small smirk, a _sharp_ one that makes his entire face ugly, “ah, brother Shardlake the hunchbacked lawyer.”

…Oh.

He feels Barak slide in behind him, takes some comfort from that warmly familiar presence, “ _your_ lawyer, Mr. Skermer?”

“Ay,” the man’s sharp smirk simply grows as he tucks his hands behind his back, grows even crueller as he saunters ever closer like a wolf surveying its prey, “and this’d be your associate?”

“My assistant,” he corrects resignedly, standing his ground, “Jack Barak.”

“Ah, Mr. Barak!” …And immediately the man is looking over his shoulder, completely disregarding his presence like he’s some weak and powerless party in this affair, “I hope you’re finding this weather pleasant?”

“Did you make it?” …He can _feel_ Barak’s glare, ever so hot on the back of his neck, and he has to hide a smile at it – this man may be a, as already stated numerous times by Barak, arsehole - but he can’t bring himself to show quite _that_ level of disrespect.

“…No?” Even at the stupid look on his face.

“Then why are you taking credit for it, you utter-?”

“Ah!” Even as Barak defends him so nicely, sends a warm feeling flaring up in his chest as he finds that oddly familiar shin with a rather pointed foot, “that is besides the point. The case, Mr. Skermer?”

…Mr. Skermer who is still staring over his head.

“Answer my master,” until Barak snaps tightly, still incredibly firm at his back, “the _case_?”

There is a pause.

Skermer’s smirk simply grows, as he nods like he and Barak have some great secret between them. He turns back and takes two steps, sinks into the chair in front of the desk like it’s some sort of terribly grand throne (fit for Henry Tudor himself, though he doubts that even Henry would be so much of a bastard), “alright, then.”

…He sighs, _again_.

Takes a long look back at Barak before he follows, lowers himself into his own familiar chair (made specially for his back) and rests his arms on the grainy wood “…The case?”

“Yes,” Skermer says very slowly, like he’s addressing a fool (and not even Sommers, who everybody knows is the smartest man in England), “ _my_ case, the one against my daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Which means I _fathered_ her?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he repeats, and tries not to grit his teeth – for that’d be a victory for this man and he doesn’t quite feel like indulging him _that_ far (especially as Barak edges around his chair, his weight steady and familiar at his back yet again), “Hannah Skermer. Twenty one years of age last June. You accused her of stealing some of your jewellery?”

“…Indeed,” Skermer sneers, and if he wasn’t horrifically ugly before he’s _definitely_ so now, “little crippled tart. Ran off with her pimp and took all my stuff with her.”

“She-“

“All those years I was kind to her, all those years I _kept_ her when I could’ve simply drowned the brat in a barrel at birth and saved myself the trouble,” Skermer carries over him angrily, as if he’s some child that’s easily stepped upon, “and that’s how she repaid me. The little bitch.”

“Mr. Skermer-“

“The little _cunt_ -“

“I went to see her yesterday,” he interrupts _firmly_ , rapping his knuckles on the desk to gain the awful man’s attention, “ _she_ said that she hadn’t taken anything, and also implied that you’d driven her to leave-“

“Cripples together, ey?” Skermer’s sneer simply grows bigger, combines with a smirk that he was holding back… And he has to throw out an arm to halt Barak before he advances, has to hold it _firmly_ there as he feels Barak tense even further, “she _would_ say those things - and you’d, of course, believe her.”

“ _You-_ ”

He twists his arm, awkwardly pinches Barak’s hip until he shudders to a reluctant halt, “I’m just going over the facts, Mr. Skermer, I haven’t decided either way yet. I’ve heard her side of the story, yes, but now I’d rather like to hear yours.”

There’s a long pause, Skermer’s sneering smirk fading slightly as he processes the lack of reaction “…Are you sure you’ll be able to understand it?”

He pinches Barak’s hip again, _just_ for good measure (the man was breathing heavily, after all. It’s best to take _precautions_ over such things), “I can _try_.”

“And fail, but you should be allowed the chance to feel like you’re almost normal,” Skermer considers for a long second, he firmly resists the urge to pinch Barak yet again, “about five months ago she met this pimp, so it isn’t some great love story if you’re thinking that. He just encouraged her to go beyond her station, think things far too big for her little head.”

He resists the urge to grind his teeth into dust.

“I didn’t expect anything to come of it, I thought I’d _trained_ her well enough, but two months later she decided to run off with him. Left me a note to say she hadn’t been murdered, like I really _cared_ ,” not that Skermer would actually _notice_ , with his scornful laugh and shaking head “…She left of her own volition, on her own stupid terms. So I didn’t drive her, you see?”

“Almost,” he snaps, as sharply as he can, “when did you realize that the jewellery-?”

“Not that I mourned her going, of course,” Skermer continues over him again, a dark look to his fat face as he lowers his chin and grunts, “I celebrated, in fact. Celebrated for _months_ … Celebrated a bit more than I should’ve, perhaps.”

“So,” he tries again! Despite his deep and passionate urge to punch the man in the face, “the jewellery-?”

“I only noticed that _my_ stuff was gone a few weeks ago,” and Skermer _still_ doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to him, but it’s a step in the right direction and he’ll take it for the boon it is, “the necklaces, the earrings, the locket… Expensive shit.”

“And it took you a week after that to realize that it might’ve been your daughter…?”

“I didn’t think that she had the brains!” …Yes, like that is anywhere near a passable defence, “anyway, immediately after I realized I came here and that’s the end of my story.”

Like he couldn’t guess…

“Knew you wouldn’t get it.”

…Like he really _wanted_ to guess. He sighs again, leans back in his chair to get himself as far away from Skermer as politely possible, “are you sure that your daughter took the jewellery?”

“Who else could it have been?”

“Do you have any evidence-?”

“I just _know_ , something that a crookback like you wouldn’t understand,” Skermer _insists_ , with the slightest tighten of his ugly lips, “she took them. And she’s lying about not having them, and she’s _lying_ if she said that I drove her away, and she’s just _lying_.”

He stares silently for a moment.

“ _Lying_ -“

“So much lying,” Barak interrupts insolently, his voice oddly ragged but his body strong again (…Still underneath his fingertips, the ones he hasn’t yet removed), “makes a man wonder where she got it all from.”

…And their meeting comes to a close on that.

 

\--

 

Skermer fetches his horse, a big black creature, with a growl. Doesn’t bother to look at either of them before he awkwardly mounts up and trots away in the most dignified manner possible – still like he’s some grand king instead of an overinflated merchant only capable of inspiring hatred.

He waits a polite second before he dares to exchange a smile with Barak, gently mutters, “we have no further business here,” as he turns away and lets the man follow.

They soon find both Sukey and Genesis, standing together in gossip (as horses are prone to do), and mount up. Their walk out of the gate is slower and easier than Skermer’s, their trip back to the house far less stormy as they ride close together and often exchange sweet smiles like they’re together in some actual conspiracy.

Though it does give him time to wonder…

_What if he’d tugged Barak aside after Skermer had left? What if he’d led the man fully into the shadows and carefully glanced around before he’d dared to say a word?_

_“Thank you,” or two words, either way._

_“What are you thanking me for?” Barak would’ve looked mock confused no matter what, crossing his arms almost defensively (but with not a touch of truth in that defence, for he would’ve_ seen _the flash of pride quite clearly) over his chest, “I did nothing.”_

_“You defended me.”_

_“I did what any reasonable man would’ve done.”_

_“No,” he would’ve contradicted gently, laying his hand on one of those crossed arms and imploringly tilting his head (perhaps a little like a puppy, a man can hope), “you did what a friend would’ve done, and a true friend at that… Which sounds quite terribly soppy, but is actually quite wonderfully true.”_

_“You sap,” Barak would’ve smirked, and they would’ve laughed together…_

_Until Barak’s face went oddly serious, and his hand raised in turn to gently press against his cheek, “it wasn’t the act of a friend, though, if you’ll allow the contradiction. It was the act of a…”_

_He would’ve paused then. Timidly. Carefully._

_“A…?” And he would’ve prompted firmly, his heart catching in his throat._

_…And it would’ve been good, still so_ wonderfully _good, that Barak was more a man of action than a courter of words. The man would’ve stepped forwards, pressed him into the shadows, given him one curving smirk and then leaned slowly in. The kiss would’ve been perfect, hot, his hands sliding tightly into Barak’s silky dark hair as his mouth opened for a moan-_

“Sir?” And he almost falls off Genesis in reality, barely manages to catch himself as Barak looks on in amusement, “we’re here, you didn’t seem to notice. Pleasant dreams?”

“…Of a sort,” he can only offer with a barely repressed blush, and dismount with his fingers still itching.

 

\--

 

“He _was_ an arsehole, though,” Barak grumbles the moment the front door swings shut behind them, taking off his cloak and slinging it casually up, “a _complete_ arsehole.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” he can only sigh, take off his own cloak… And smile, in a surprised way, as Barak swiftly plucks it from his fingers and hangs it for him, “it’s a miracle that you didn’t punch the man.”

“Well: I couldn’t, could I?”

He arches his eyebrow at that, vaguely amused.

“You don’t know what you can do with your hands,” Barak grumbles mysteriously, and pauses to think for a long moment as he just has to _frown_ at that (for he’s always been good at mysteries, but the one that is Barak has always eluded him) “…Yes. The case, then?”

“The case!” He says, so glad for the distraction that he could explode and not mind a single bit “…I’m inclined to like the daughter more, I must admit. As least she didn’t treat me like a five year old who couldn’t speak a single word for himself.”

Barak, almost unfortunately, knows him too well for that to be the end of it, “but…?”

“Well,” he offers as he continues thinking, tilting his head and still frowning just slightly, “he _was_ a git.”

“Yes, a complete one.”

“But…” He sighs, crosses his arms (because maybe _that’ll_ help the thought process in some arcane way), “ _but_ that complete git thought that he was telling the truth. No shifting, no hesitating, no flailing around when we tried to call him out on things.”

Barak nods over that, slowly “…He could be a good liar?”

He can only arch his eyebrow, maybe a little more speedily than he should, “does Harry Skermer strike you as a good liar?”

“You never know where good liars are going to come from,” Barak pretends to think for another second, forehead wrinkling attractively… Grins, bounces on his heels as he gives up the ghost, “But I agree with you completely.”

“Good to know,” he can’t help but grin in return. Barak just has that rather unhealthy effect on him “…Though that does mean that it was _Hannah_ who was lying and not her father, no matter how deeply unfortunate he may be.”

Barak just stares at him, silently drawing the words out.

“We have to see her again,” tempting them out, like you’d lead a donkey with a particularly juicy carrot, “maybe try to trick her into a confession? Though she’s intelligent so that may not work… Maybe at least try to convince her into giving something away?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“Mm.”

Barak hesitates for a second before asking his next question, crossing his hands before his codpiece in an almost distracting way “…We’ll still be representing the arsehole, then?”

He bites his tongue for his own long moment before he responds, slow and careful at the look in Barak’s eyes, “for now, yes.”

“Despite the way he treated you?”

“I’m _used_ to it, Jack.”

“Yes, but it’s not something that you _should’ve_ grown used to-“ Barak catches himself, breathes for a long moment as he stares curiously (if you can call the odd lightness in his chest curiousness, if you can term that feeling that almost makes him want to _sing_ ) “…We’ll go and see his daughter tomorrow, then?”

“That’d be best,” he nods (still feeling that strangely singing urge) “…She’s nicer than her father, I swear. Less likely to cause offence.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.”

“Good,” Barak says gravely, utter sincerity in his eyes, “because I wouldn’t want to go for a woman half my size. And you probably wouldn’t want to hold me back in such a situation.”

…He laughs, softly. Trying to clear the tension (like a sword, slicing through the air) in the best way he can, “like I was today?”

But Barak only shrugs, offers a slight smile in return, “Ay, I’ll admit it.”

“Will you?”

“I got defensive,” Barak nods, shrugs again, leans back in a way almost casual enough to fool him, “you may be used to such things, but I’m not. I don’t particularly like it when idiots insult you for something that is as much a part of you as your hair, or your eyes, or your inherent goodness that keeps driving us into these things.”

…Oh.

 _Oh_.

That light feeling is back, almost strong enough to make him hover above the floor, “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

And Barak’s eyes are gentle, his fingers finally ( _finally_ ) so soft on his arm that they feel like they belong there, “Of course I do, and have since the first moment I met you. You’re a man worth caring about.”

…And he splutters! Glances down with burning cheeks yet _a-damned-gain_ , “I’m really not.”

“You really are.”

“I’m really not and I’m _not_ getting into this,” he says, as levelly as he can when his gut is _screaming_ at him to press Barak back against the wall and kiss him until he’s gasping, “we’ll go tomorrow, yes?”

“I’ve already said that.”

“…It deserved repetition,” he murmurs, steadily turning bright scarlet, and quickly turns away as Barak’s hand brushes up to his cheek – hurries into the kitchen just as Joan pops her matronly head out.

Dinner is conducted in silence. He only gets up the courage to gently lean forward and bump his knees against Barak’s towards the end of the night (and when he looks up the man is beaming, _ever_ so startlingly bright). 

 

\--

 

 _He presses his knee against Barak’s and the man slides_ his _knees further up, pushing and pushing until they’re sprawled back on the bed – Barak nakedly straddling him with such a smirk upon his face._

_“Are you sure about this?” He asks, completely sure himself, “we don’t have to if you don’t-“_

_“I love you,” Barak interrupts honestly, and he remains silent for both an hour and a minute as the world goes bright again – only returning to soft kisses (whisper soft) being pressed slowly down his neck, “whatever we do will be a_ pleasure _, sir. And will be something that I happily remember for the rest of my life.”_

_He stares up for a second – floating on a cloud, only detached bliss in his world…_

_And then smiles at the flickered kiss across a collarbone, nods and arches easily (so very easily, his twisted back not causing a single moment of doubt) into Barak’s heat: allowing his eyes to fall shut as that mouth ghosts hotly back to his – like it’s drawn there, like it can never go too far away._

_The heat of Barak’s mouth on his cock is strange and beautiful, he can’t close his eyes at it – can only stare up and let out little whimpers through his teeth at the wet rock and careful twist._

_The slide of their cocks together is odd and wonderful, he digs bloody lines into Barak’s back – and when he looks at his nails finds gold glittering under them, shining bright enough to be real._

_The taste of Barack’s cock in his mouth is foreign and glorious, he twists his lips around it easier than he ever thought he would – hollows his cheeks with all the ease of no practice, takes it down his throat like he’s tasting fine wine, even slides his hand back between Barak’s legs and brushes nothing to cause absolute bliss._

_Thee firmness of that cock inside him is_ amazing. _Amazing. Amazing. Amazing and hot and firm and a helpless tangle of heat and weight and glory and his veins full of fire and gold under his fingernails and the screech of his name above him and the rock and the shake the repetition of his name and- and-_

And-

He wakes up to Barak shaking him, is glad that it was cold enough to add an extra blanket in the night.

 

\--

 

“You _were_ like a block of wood when I came in,” Barak is still crowing as they dismount in front of Hannah’s (still far too small) house, “unmovable - I could’ve slapped you across the face and you wouldn’t’ve noticed!”

He only grunts, ties Genesis’ reins around a pole and spares a brief prayer of thanks that his hardness was quick to fade.

“…What were you dreaming about?”

Even if Barak’s memories are so incredibly _slow_ , “nothing much, nothing I can really remember. Are you going to knock on the door any time soon or are we going to have to wait here until the moon rises?”

That _brilliant_ ploy unfortunately only gets him a strange look, a faint shift and a slow tilt of Barak’s head, “isn’t that your job?”

…He can only huff, again. And draw himself up, again. And try to look haughty, _again_ and with little hope of success, “well, you might as well make yourself useful while you’re here.”

“You asked me to come…”

“Please don’t say coming,” he asks in resigned tones, and then immediately resists the urge to slap a hand to his head as Barak gives him an even _stranger_ glance, “sorry, _sorry_. I don’t remember anything but apparently it was bad enough to drain me.”

“Are you alright?” …And immediately Barak is looking concerned, gently reaching to touch his arm again.

“Um-“

“For today, I mean.”

“Er…”

“Because we could easily hop on the horses and go back home. Get you settled in bed again, let you catch up on your sleep. Meeting her again can wait until tomorrow, can’t it? Until you feel a bit better, I mean…”

He sways slightly, almost overwhelmed under the sheer weight of _care_ -

But not overwhelmed enough to miss the old woman peering at them from a nearby doorway. Her face wrinkled and sagging, her body thin and bony, her entire demeanour like a rat ready to run off with the crumbs dropped on the floor.

He stares at Barak’s concerned face for only a moment more.

Glances away out of a sense of self preservation, because swooning would be deeply unwise upon these streets, and gestures at the woman as carefully as he can – mildly pleased when she doesn’t immediately turn upon her heel and flee at top speed, “hello?”

No, she only stares at them for a moment more.

And then jumps off her step, points one claw-like finger with a suspicious expression written all across her careworn face, “you looking for the Dootsons?”

“Yes,” he says carefully, sparing only the briefest warning glance at Barak (who, to his credit, is looking as calm as a summer’s brook), “goodwife Dootson in particular. Is she at home?”

“No, she’s off at work,” the woman’s eyes only narrow further, somehow making her face even more pinched, “what do you want with Hannah?”

“Only to question her-“

“Nothing harmful, we swear,” Barak takes over, and a brief glance back only _confirms_ an oddly soothing cast to his face – the faint smile of a man physically unable of performing bad acts, “we actually want to help her. To clear up a few things for her peace of mind.”

“She already seems pretty peaceful…”

“Does she?”

There’s a pause.

“…She works at an inn, Saint Edward’s Arms,” the woman gives quietly, so quickly that he barely manages to untangle the words, “she’ll be there now, with her husband behind the taps to make sure she gets no hassle. The owner’s a nice enough chap, he should be happy to let them talk to you for a bit.”

“She works?” He asks in surprise, leans back only a little at the woman’s sudden look, “I just mean, her arm…”

“People have to live, don’t they?” She gives him a quick, not particularly disgusted, look over – shrugs as she turns on her heel and back into her house, “besides, your back hasn’t stopped _you_.”

…He stares at the shut door for a second.

He turns back to Barak, and summons up a slight smile as he _still_ avoids looking into the man’s eyes (or swooning at his feet, or just leaping into his arms and getting the whole process over and done with), “Saint Edward’s Arms, then?”

“God,” the man only grumbles, “ _never_ trust a pub with a Saint in it.”

But, despite this, they soon get mounted up. And ride off again in a generally brave and noble manner, the streets silent around them as everybody either works or stays put in their silent houses.

Saint Edward’s Arms is nicer than he was expecting. Not _far_ nicer, you don’t get far nicer in London, but still not a place where blood and filth and the signs of sex seem rubbed up against every wall. The sign creaks gently above their heads, the door looks old and when they push it open they find mercifully few people around – the after-work rush hours still far away.

Hannah is leaning against a table when they walk in, Johnny at her side. They break from their talk for a moment to boredly look them over, barely seeming to see…

Before definitely seeming to _notice_ , “oi! What are you-?”

“ _Johnny_ ,” Hannah sighs, throwing her good arm out in much the same way he did yesterday – blocking Johnny’s hips with the barest twitch “…Brother Shardlake. I assume that you have seen my father again?”

“Yes-“

“You-!”

“ _Johnny_!” Hannah sighs, straightens calmly – her blonde hair tucked under a cap, her clear eyes calm as she looks them over, “you’ve heard his side of the story, then?”

“…Yes.”

“Is he still insisting that I took the jewels?”

…He nods mutely, tired of the word ‘yes.’

And Hannah, in response, only gives a slightly crooked smirk – lowers her good arm to swipe neatly over her skirts and sends Johnny a faintly pleading look, “I’d be happy to discuss him and that with you. Would you like some drink while we talk? I’m afraid we only have the weakest ale, but I suppose you’ll want a clear head for such matters anyway.”

In this manner they end up seated at an old wooden table, alcohol stains clearly splashed on the wood. He watches gratefully as Barak heads Johnny off to another table just out of earshot, takes a quick sip of (actually rather weak) ale before turning back to Hannah.

She’s smiling, in a rather knowing way that he’s not quite sure how to react to, “that’s your assistant?”

“Jack Barak,” he nods softly… _Still_ not sure how to answer beyond a tighten of his hand around his drink, “he’s been with me about two months now. And I couldn’t have a more loyal man.”

“Smart?”

“Strong, charming, witty, att-“ He realizes what he’s saying, cuts himself off before such obvious sodomy (because that is how the courts would term it, even if he sees nothing sinful in such simple acts) can plainly hit air “…Um. So. I met your father yesterday, put to him several questions about the case.”

Hannah only smiles knowingly, settles back in her chair like she isn’t surprised at _all_ , “you’ve _seen_ how he treats people, then?”

“…What?”

She only arches her eyebrow. An amused gesture, one only the faintest bit resigned, “I assume he passed comment upon your back. Or several comments, each one somehow more insulting than the last?”

…He falls silent, looking down at his hands.

“I hope you’re aware that that’s answer enough,” as Hannah laughs slightly – not mockingly, not harshly. Just the shared laugh of survivors after some entirely awful thing, “did he then also proceed to treat you like a five year old?”

He remains silent.

“And talk to your assistant like you weren’t there?”

He _still_ remains silent.

“And openly tell you that he was surprised that you’d made anything, fully expected that you wouldn’t make anything further and would actually be stunned if you didn’t die in some filthy gutter?”

He-

He glances up, hands still firmly folded around his drink. Finds her smiling gaze and holds it, “he was truly a horrible man, I’m willing to admit that. How did you remain with him for so many years?”

“You get used to it after a while, as I’m sure you know,” she only shrugs, sighs softly “…He really is still accusing me of stealing the jewels?”

“We shouldn’t _have_ to-“ he realizes that he’s mimicking Barak a little too much, clams up for a long second before his tongue figures out what exactly it wants to say, “yes. And he had this certain look to his face like he wasn’t lying.”

“Or didn’t believe he was lying.”

“…Yes.”

Hannah hums, just lightly. Glances away from him briefly to Barak and Johnny’s table, smiles in a way that he can’t help but follow… For _they’re_ smiling over there, and grinning over there, and even _laughing_ over there as they lift their cups and clack them together like old friends just reunited.

“They’re getting along well,” he says quietly, captivated by the sight of Barak so happy.

“Perhaps it’s because they’re both so accepting,” Hannah muses, and if he was capable of glancing away he’d _bet_ on finding that soft smile still there, “they don’t see the twisted arm or the hunched back. They only see people, and people who are perfectly capable of being loved at that.”

He keeps his eyes on Barak for another moment (minute)…

Finally drags his face back around to Hannah, stares for a long moment at what she’s so easily figured out.

She only smiles, taps her fingers on the table yet again “…Just out of interest: if I _had_ taken the jewels would you prosecute me for it?”

He blinks, looks back down at his drink, “that’d be just-“

“Indeed,” she laughs softly, the idea of justness obviously _amusing_ to her in some unknowable way, “but would it be _as_ just if you were prosecuting me for my father?”

…He remains silent.

“Think about it,” and she nods – not accusingly, just softly as if it’s an honest sort of suggestion, “and perhaps ask him the full story behind those jewels the next time you’re unfortunate enough to meet.”

 

\--

 

He manages to pry Barak from Johnny’s side, they’re _still_ laughing together like old friends even after he settles the price with Hannah, with some difficulty in the end. Manages to drag him out into the street with a little less, his hand tight on that muscular arm as Barak waves over his shoulder and yells something about organizing a drinking night.

They ride back in silence. Barak content and smiling, him quiet and thoughtful.

…Because, again, he has time to think.

Hannah obviously detected his feelings. And, though he _knows_ she’s a remarkably astute woman, he has to wonder if he was really _that_ obvious about them: if he was standing a little too close, watching a little too intently, occasionally looking like he was about to simply jump on Barak and devour his mouth whole.

…It’s possible.

His feelings are far from quiet, after all. Far from virginal. Far from _innocent_ … In fact, they’re _so_ far from all those things as to be in another country. A loud, bawdy, utterly and completely _sinful_ one where people stand about naked all the time and only think of their basest desires.

He spares a brief, detailed despite all its briefness, thought on the nudity of Barak, the base desires of _Barak_ -

…Yes, it’s most definitely that.

Though… _Though_. Hannah’s smirks were sharp but seemed more often directed away from him, more over to where Barak was sitting laughing with Johnny. Grinning. Talking passionately about something that he couldn’t hear nor lipread. And they were definitely _knowing_ smirks, laughing smirks – the curving things given to friends when an object of desire passes by.

…Is _he_ an object of desire to Barak? Does Barak stand too close to him? Stare at him for long and silent moments? Look sometimes like he just wants to disappear to the very darkest corner with him in tow? Look so _very_ protective that the rest of the world simply has to back away?

‘…Are your desires the same desires as your dream self?’ He desperately wants to ask, as he focuses on Barak’s straight back – his happy grin in the saddle as they ride down the dirty street, ‘Do you just want to see _me_ instead of my back?’

…He doesn’t, in the end.

Just keeps riding, silent and wondering and ever focused on Barak’s form besides him.

 

\--

 

“He was a nice man,” Barak finally says a little after their evening meal, leaning lazily back in his chair as Joan shuffles off to do something unknown, “Johnny, I mean.”

He relaxes back into his own chair, smiles fondly as Barak runs an absent hand through his hair, “you appeared to be getting on well.”

“We were!”

“Talking a lot…”

“Just as much as you and Hannah,” Barak smiles genially, already tilting his head back to study the slightly cracked ceiling, “Did you find anything that could be used in the case, by the way?”

…He sighs, fondness and happiness gone all at once, “nothing.”

“She didn’t admit to anything?”

“Didn’t even _hint_ at anything, unfortunately. Only told me to ask her father the story behind the apparently stolen jewellery and left it at that,” he thinks for a long moment, folding his hands unassumingly in his lap “…Oh, yes. And sympathised with me in a quite lovely way.”

“Sympathised?”

“Over his treatment of us,” he says softly, for fear that Barak would immediately leap out of his chair and run off to eviscerate Skermer and all people in the way “…And his treatment of everybody not exactly like him, I suspect.”

“Arsehole.”

“Undoubtedly” …It’s better than unfortunate eviscerating, he supposes. And also impossible to avoid, impossible to even _try_ to defend the man, “but that doesn’t stop him from telling the truth. Just as Hannah’s niceness, also indubitable, doesn’t mean that she automatically has to speak it.”

Barak looks at him for a long second, reluctant to admit anything.

“…Did you get something from Johnny?”

And pauses for another long moment, frowning slightly as if he’s not quite sure where the question came from, “should I have?”

“He might’ve dropped a few hints…” He nods encouragingly.

“…Yes, but we didn’t really talk about the case,” Barak only shrugs, a touch guiltily under his hope (and he supposes that it says a lot, a _lot_ , about him that he immediately wants to leap up and soothe that guilt away), “or anything surrounding it.”

“Oh,” (he can’t be angry, after all, for the man needs _some_ friends outside of him (if you can call what they have, confusing and often arousing, anywhere near a normal friendship)), “what _were_ you talking about?”

…Barak pauses for a long moment, as if unsure what to say, “relationships?”

Oh.

…He swallows dryly, feels oddly like he should be fainting a moment after, “relationships?”

“Yes.”

Oh-

“…Well,” he swallows again, and feels like maybe he _will_ faint in the most deeply humiliating way possible, “Well. That involves Hannah, doesn’t it? And so involves _something_ vaguely surrounding the case.”

Barak blinks, like that leap didn’t quite occur to him “…I suppose.”

“Yes,” he says gently, for maybe the man does need a little guidance, “so, what did he say about her?”

“…Well, you know how the arsehole stated very firmly that they’d met only five months ago?” Barak waits for his slow nod, ever so obedient, “wrong. They’ve actually known each other for about five _years_.”

And now it’s his turn to blink at that, while firmly stepping on that hovering fainting feeling, “since she was sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” Barak nods thoughtfully, mainly to himself, “and since he was nineteen. He came to work in her father’s house as a general servant, one of those dogbodys that everybody kicks. A favour to a friend, apparently.”

“A friend…?”

“Johnny’s uncle.”

“Excellent,” he says, making a mental note to find and interview the uncle if nothing else pans out yet again, “so they got to know each other after that?”

“She was often lonely, her father wouldn’t let her see anybody due to her arm, and so she was in the habit of striking up talk with the servants – who, if not accepting or uncaring, were at least too fearful of their measly paycheck to be openly cruel to the poor woman.”

“Go on.”

“So, after a few conversations on general topics, he started to visit her,” Barak obeys immediately yet again, a slightly dreamy smile upon his face (he always took the man for a closeted romantic, it’s nice to have the impression confirmed), “at first just to chat, or tease her over her lessons, but eventually… Well, he started bringing her flowers and trinkets.”

He can barely hold back his own smile, “he noticed her looks?”

“Her blonde hair, her curves, the way she always wrinkled her nose when she laughed,” for Barak’s growing one is enough for the both of them, after all, “and, apparently, eventually this grew into a deeper appreciation of her wit and her talents and the way she always lit up every time she saw him.”

“And after that…?”

“After about two years of dancing around the subject she confessed that she’d fancied him since the first time she saw him,” the man laughs gently, “and a fairytale kiss followed naturally from there.”

“Lovely,” and he honestly means it too “…But how did Skermer find out?”

“About a year ago they decided that they wanted to be legally wed, and so Johnny took a better paying job behind the counter of the Saint Edward’s Arms,” Barak’s grin fades, just slightly – he misses it the moment it’s gone, “far away, yes: but it was good money with the possibility of further advancement, and he could always visit whenever he wished.”

He laughs softly to himself, still missing that grin, “let me guess: he did?”

“Regularly,” Barak coughs – not a proper one, one to be worried about and force him to bed over, but an attention seeking one that isn’t sure whether to be angry or amused “...A bit too regularly, actually. About five months ago a servant caught him sneaking into Hannah’s room and reported it to her arsehole of a master.”

“And he got the impression that Johnny was a pimp from that innocent meeting?”

Barak arches his eyebrow.

“…Oh.”

“At the rate they’ve been going it’s a miracle they don’t have ten brats already,” the man chuckles in response to his blush, stares for maybe a second _too_ long afterwards, “anyway: she’d already been absolutely sick of her father’s rule but that proved the final straw.”

“He grew even more abusive?”

“What do you think?” Barak answers himself before he can even open his mouth, “already she’d had to deal with his constant dickishness and the withholding of her inheritance, but after _that_ he added her relationship with Johnny to the mix: kept going on about how he’d leave her with a scornful laugh, how he was only telling her he loved her out of pity, how he was only telling her he loved her for the money. And eventually she couldn’t take it anymore: packed her bags, wrote a note and ran off with Johnny two months after the whole business had been discovered.”

“Oh,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

“And they got married two months after _that_ , when they’d found a proper home for themselves and settled down a bit.”

“ _Oh_ ” …He’s frowning thoughtfully again, for the story is undeniably (and utterly) lovely but there’s still something that doesn’t quite _fit_ , “her mother’s inheritance?”

“…Yes?”

The frown grows, “do you know what that was?”

Barak thinks for a long moment, frowns in turn, even leans forward to tap his hands slowly against the table “…No, he didn’t mention any details.”

“Land? Titles? … _Possessions_?”

“I told you,” Barak sighs - gives him a slight, apologetic smile to soften the blow, “he didn’t mention it.”

…Oh well.

He relaxes even further into his chair, starts gently smiling again because the subject really isn’t worth his very vest (ever growing) frown, “is that all you talked about, then?”

“What?”

“Just him and his relationship with Hannah?” He teases, biting back a laugh as Barak gives him a narrow eyed look, “my, I didn’t know you were so willing to hear so much about _others_ , Jack.”

Barak only gives him a tolerant smile, starts to lean back again…

Pauses, as if something terrifying and marvellous has just occurred to him, “there was one thing.”

…Huh.

That strange fainting feeling is back again, clenching in his gut in a way that makes him feel sick and hopeful and scared and so many other helpless things in between, “really?”

“Something important.”

“ _Really_?”

Barak hesitates for a long and, he can admit it – it’s undeniably _true_ , terrifying moment. Slowly licks his temptingly dry lips before daring to continue, “After Johnny had told me about Hannah I told him, in turn, how I met you.”

And- (Oh god, oh _god_. He doesn’t feel like fainting as much as he feels like _exploding_ : shattering in bloody lumps all over the floor and whimpering softly forevermore because there’s absolutely _nothing_ else he can do, absolutely _nothing_ after that.)

“Did you?” He asks, and hears his voice as if from far away – as if it’s echoing up some well he’s trapped at the bottom of (the Wentworth’s well, perhaps. A bad memory from not _too_ long ago), “We-well, I hope you didn’t tell him too much about Greek Fire-“

“That wasn’t the focus of my story” …And Barak’s eyes are _intense_ upon him, guiding towards something deep and sudden and absolutely wonderful that he’s so very unsure of, “no.”

“I-“ and he’s choking.

“It was you.”

“I- _I-_ ” _Choking_ , the air in his lungs turning against him so surely that he can do nothing but flail.

“ _Only_ you,” as Barak gives a timid smile, and reaches a hand across the table – covering his own so warmly that it’s a miracle he doesn’t actually implode then and there, “Matthew, I-“

“…I think I need to go to bed,” and he, he the _idiot_ , splutters at exactly that moment, jumping to his feet in the next and _snatching_ his hand away because it’s either that or fall apart completely, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack, have a good rest of the night. And don’t get off _too_ late, remember – we’re going to see Skermer again tomorrow and I’d hate for you to feel faint!”

“I-“

“Goodnight!” The next moment, before Jack can even open his mouth more than a grinding centimetre, he’s gone – up the stairs and into his room with a helplessly stumbling step.

…There’s no other option, after all.

 

\--

 

He wonders, after he’s slammed his door shut behind him and is already sprawling back on the bed, what would’ve happened if he _hadn’t_ fled. If, instead, he’d allowed Barak’s hand to creep beyond his and up his arm – allowed that confession to be completed instead of rudely cut off.

‘Matthew, I care for you.’

‘Matthew, I want you.’

‘Matthew, I _love_ you.’

…He hesitates for only a moment before allowing his hand to creep between his legs, flip up his doublet, roll down his hose and wrap around his cock ever so tentatively (because if he did anything else he’d explode again, and the house doesn’t need _that_ on top of everything else).

And-

He grits his teeth.

And _after that confession they would’ve stared at each other for a long moment, taken each other in hesitantly, just_ looked _…_

 _Before,_ and he gasps at the twist of his wrist then, _surging forwards. Over the table, into each others’ arms for a kiss so fierce that the rest of the world would’ve been simply blown away – the only sensation Barak’s lips upon his and Barak’s hand clenching on his arm._

_…Of course, for he is a realist even in his wildest dreams, he would’ve had to draw back with a gasp after just a second._

_But Barak,_ his _Barak, would’ve been kind. Would’ve immediately drawn back a second afterwards. Would’ve been around the table in the next. A soothing hand on his back and eyes ever so kind as they looked at him and only him, “are you alright? We can stop-?”_

…Ah.

_“We can-“_

He lifts his free hand to slap over his mouth, lest he scream the house down, keeps pumping hard with the other – as he imagines, _oh_ he imagines, _stepping forwards the moment the screech in his back faded to a faint whimper. Kissing Barak again just as sweetly as he’d always dreamed._

 _“…It’s alright,” he would’ve said, “it’s_ wonderful _. I just need an easier position, that’s-“_

He muffles a gasp with his hand.

_“-All.”_

_“An easier position?” And Barak would ask, a faintly worshipful smile curving his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe the luck that’d fallen straight into his lap, “I think I can manage_ something _like that.”_

And-

And-

 _The lift onto the table would be swift, easy with Barak’s muscles bulging beneath his shirt. He’d move between his legs with just as much purpose. Would flip up his doublet, much as it’s flipped now, and pull down his hose, much as they’re down now, and maybe even bat away the floppy ends of his shirt, as he_ is _now, and_ move in.

One pump, two pumps.

_His legs would lock around Barak’s waist, despite the fact that he’s not a young man even in the dream._

Three pumps, four pumps.

_He would be able to feel Barack’s hardness against his thigh in turn, hot through his codpiece as he reached out one dazed hand to return the favour._

Five pumps, six pumps.

_The man would be freed easily, and for a long moment they would grind so perfectly together – cock on cock and teeth in throat and whimpering music the only things between them._

Seven pumps, eight pumps-

 _And he’d_ come.

 _Nine_ pumps-

_And Barak would follow him, panting and shaking and beaming a smile so huge it could restore any dead man (or woman) to life._

_Ten_ -

And he comes now: biting his yell into his hand, shuddering his way desperately through until he’s weak and pliant and so _very_ near blissful.

…Not near enough, though.

Not near enough to disregard the fact that he _still_ didn’t fully remove his shirt even in the fantasy, or completely ignore the hurried footsteps he _almost_ hears moving away from his room.

 

\--

 

The next morning Barak is quiet as they eat breakfast, seemingly unable to meet his eyes no matter how hard he tries (not that he tries that hard, the memory of last night still leaping out and screeching no matter what he does). He remains quiet even as they part to get properly dressed, even as they mount Sukey and Genesis and trot out into the street, right up to the point when they trot past the inn-

“What?” And then speaks, with a faintly confused look to his face.

…He glances over, is pleased to find himself blushing only slightly, “Skermer’s agreed to meet us at his home today.”

“…Seriously?”

“Is there a reason he shouldn’t?”

“He’s an arsehole,” Barak says like that explains everything, a faintly bemused look spreading across his (handsome, it’s best to admit that now) face, “I didn’t think that he’d expend the effort.”

“Maybe he wanted to be on safe ground,” he can only offer, in mild tones since it’s as much a mystery to him as it is to absolutely everybody else (or just Barak, who somehow counts _more_ than everybody else put together), “in case you went at him again in my defence.”

Barak frowns softly, taps against his saddle. They ride on in silence… “I’d go at anybody anywhere for you.”

… _Definite_ silence after that.

Skermer’s house is a little smaller than he was expecting, but still three times bigger than Hannah and Johnny’s small hole. There are actual windows, made of warped glass that must cast an awful light. Flowers struggle valiantly out of barely deep enough soil to hang down into the street. The front door is old and wooden and looks faintly scarred.

He dismounts as easily as he usually does, goes to knock and mercifully leaves Barak with the horses.

The door is opened by a hard faced woman with a cautious stare. She nods at his quick explanation of being Skermer’s lawyer, doesn’t question it as she calls for a boy to fetch the horses and gestures him (them both, as he rapidly calls Barak over) happily in.

They’re left standing alone for an awkward moment in the hall, a wide table stretching out before them and the light just as bad as he imagined…

And then Skermer charges in at top speed, gives him the same nasty smirk as last time, greets only Barak yet _again_ , “ah, my very fine lawyers are here!”

“Lawyer,” he corrects wearily, not bothering to hold Barak back because… Well, he doesn’t trust himself. Or the faint trembling in his guts. Or the numerous confessions that are struggling for dominance in his throat, “is there a more private place to speak, Mr. Skermer?”

He expects it when the man looks over his head yet again, it doesn’t make it any less frustrating but at least he’s _prepared_ , “are you happy here, Mr. Barak?”

And…

Oh, he can _feel_ Barak’s glare over his head. Hot and angry and so defensive that he could melt across the floor and not care a single bit, “I want what my master wants.”

“Your master?” Skermer sounds faintly amused.

“In all ways,” but Barak only sounds _angry_ , calm and threatening and so very firm, “now, is there a more private place to speak or will we have to drag you kicking and screaming out into the street?”

…At least it finally gets Skermer moving. Blinking in a slightly stunned way before giving a sharp (amusingly sharp, because it _is_ amusing to see such a man flustered) nod and turning upon his heel, “my study is upstairs, I would be happy to meet you in it.”

They climb the wooden stairs easily. And he only winces just slightly over every creaking board.

Skermer’s study is small and unsurprisingly empty of papers. He sits behind his big desk, which looks like it’s never once seen a bit of use, and nods arrogantly for them to follow. He half considers remaining standing on a strangely rebellious impulse… But his back is hurting again, so he represses the urge and sinks into the chair next to Barak (and will not pretend to not be entirely aware of his every shift, no).

“So,” Skermer says eventually, before he’s fully settled, “what are you going to do to the tart, then? Hanging? Pressing? Or something even worse, something _properly_ horrible for what she’s put me through?”

“She’s your daughter-“ Barak starts angrily-

He sends a warning look, is rather surprised when it works, “that’s for the courts to decide, Mr. Skermer, not me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I may have a hunched back but I assure you that my mind is in perfect order, sir,” he nods wearily, not willing to waste any more effort upon such a man, “I saw your daughter again yesterday, interviewed her again. She’s still insisting that she didn’t take your jewels.”

“She’s still lying,” Skermer gives him a look that he probably fancies sharp, “and you’re getting remarkably close to my daughter. Am I to expect a cripple grandkid sometime soon?”

“My interests do not run in that direction,” he only shakes his head, again wearily. Tries not to pay too much attention to the obvious flicker of jealousy across Barak’s face, “I only keep meeting with her because I’m interested in finding the truth. And so far this has proved a sensible strategy, providing many leads.”

“Poor cripple boy, you think that my daughter can make headgear for horses,” Skermer says to nobody in particular, and only a quick glance saves him from Barak’s fist in his face, “what of ‘leads’, then?”

…He draws in a deep breath, “she told me to ask you about the jewels-”

“ _My_ jewels-“

“-And the story behind them.” 

…A pause.

Skermer’s face going slightly purple. Barak tensing angrily at his side. Him holding his breath for a long moment-

“ _That_ is none of your business,” Skermer says eventually, and on any other man his tone would be carefully controlled. For him it is simply a child’s drawing of control, a quick and sloppy sketch on wrinkled paper, “you have no right to hear _that_ story.”

“I am your lawyer,” he must try, even if he knows what’s coming... “I seek only the truth-“

“You are a _cripple_ , who seeks only to _pollute_ ,” and Skermer is inevitably glaring at him, hot eyed and sweaty faced like he’s committed some grand sin, “look at you: crookbacked fool who thinks he’s fit to pretend at polite society. You have no brain, you have no reason, you have no _sense_ \- you can’t even see how everybody must laugh at you, scorn you for the obvious deformity in your nature.”

“Mr Skermer-“

“It was a mistake to allow you in my house,” Skermer will not be stopped, “A mistake to allow you into the world. You are a blight, a pestilence, an unfortunate blot. It is a miracle you have ever amounted to anything, but you can be quite sure that you will never amount to anything more.”

He draws in a breath-

“Because you, freak, are simply consigned to die in some filthy gutter – unloved and unmourned.”

Draws in another-

“And doomed to rot in _hell_ , like all the rest of your utterly miserable kind-“

Draws-

And suddenly Barak is standing, his face hot red with rage as he stares stupid Skermer down, “ and _you_ , git, are an utterly miserable arsehole who deserves your place far less than he deserves his.”

…He blinks, reaches out a hand-

But Barak is not to be stopped, beautiful and brave and _foolish_ Barak simply bats away his hand and carries inevitably _on_ , “a fat, beslubbering fool who thinks only of himself and his own stupid desires. An idiot, a twat, an utter _cunt_ who sees fit to drag others into his pit because he knows, deep down, that he’s really nothing at all.”

He stands up-

“You say it was a mistake to allow him into your house, into the world,” but Barak _still_ does not halt, “but _you_ were the mistake, you and several generations of your ancestors. You are the rot, the famine, the black and bubbling thing that deserves no air. _You_ are the creature that has amounted to nothing, and has built such careful constructions around himself to hide from that horribly empty fact.”

He reaches out, oh _God_ , _properly_ for Barak’s arm-

“Because you, bastard, are the one consigned to die with nobody but the servants stealing the rings off your fat fingers,” and Barak straightens only slightly when he takes hold, draws up for the final sucker punch like the finest of soldiers, “and you are the one who will go not to hell, no, but to in between – to waste away for centuries until your name is erased from every single book.”

There is another, bone-dry pause.

…Long enough for him to see the white sheen on Skermer’s face before he tightens his hand around Barak’s arm and starts to drag, “I’ll send you a messenger if we need to meet again, Mr. Skermer. Until then we won’t bother you.”

The man splutters wordlessly-

“Goodbye, see you possibly soon!” And gives him just time enough to haul Barak through the chairs, to the door before any guards can come bursting out and kill his perfect man right where he sullenly stands.

 

\--

 

And he can’t speak as he drags Barak down the stairs, can barely walk, can barely even _think_. His entire mind is just a cottoney buzz of terror, the air catching painfully hard in his chest.

What if the guards come?

Barak insulted the man in his study, spat the (most justified) abuses right into his fat and faintly wrinkled face. If he’d done that to _any_ lord he would’ve been immediately and brutally dragged away.

What if the guards come and take Barak from him?

Barak is so daring, after all, so physically _unable_ to hold his tongue. They would not be gentle in their taking, _could_ not be gentle in their taking. They would beat him, break him, _rip_ his Barak from him.

What if the guards come and take Barak from him and _torture_ him?

Stick their fists hard into Barak’s stomach, slam their feet sharply into his thighs. Rip and rip and tear and tear and stab and _stab_ until there’s only a bleakly staring bag of bones left.

What if-?

What _if_?

He flings open the door, and drags his Barak out into the almost safe street as fast as he possibly can.

 

\--

 

“Why did you drag me away?” Barak asks, as they’re waiting for their horses across the street – him still holding onto the man’s arm because he _can’t_ actually let go, “I was just giving the arsehole a bit of my mind, making him back off from being such a _dick_ -“

“You never think,” he only groans, scanning the streets for any and all potential guards, “do you?”

“…What?”

He groans again, glances up into Barak’s eyes with something that can only be described as frustration, “he’s a powerful man, Barak. A _dangerous_ man. What if he had guards, hm? What if he’d _called_ those guards down upon us?” 

Barak stares at him for a narrow eyed moment.

“…Upon you.”

“I’m sorry,” and speaks slowly, far from sincerely with his hands clenching and unclenching at his side, “I didn’t know you were so willing to prostrate yourself to gits like that.”

“Don’t,” he says sharply. For it isn’t about _that_ , whatever Barak is going on about, it isn’t about that at _all_ , “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much-“

“Didn’t know I _cared_?” He almost shouts, is glad that the few people who look up immediately fall back to their professions, “Barak, of course I care. Of _course_ I don’t want you to get hurt or maimed or _killed_ trying to protect me. The very thought of you with a dagger in your stomach makes me want to _die_.” 

…Barak looks stunned.

Barak’s lips tighten, and he stiffly draws himself up, “and that only goes one way, then?”

“Don’t-“

“Stop _saying_ that,” the man only snaps, finally shrugging his arm away, “don’t you think that I don’t want to see you hurt either? Don’t you think for even a _moment_ that I don’t want to see you in the slightest bit of pain? Don’t you _know_ that every time somebody casually insults you I want to rip them to pieces?”

“You _shouldn’t_ -“ he starts sharply.

“ _Why_ shouldn’t I?” But Barak outsmarts him, simply answers a question with a question and steps forward – bringing a sudden hand warmly to the side of his face “…Why shouldn’t I when the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen is constantly insulted for something that is as much a part of him as his brilliant eyes?”

His-?

The air chokes in his lungs for a second, he reaches up a hand to cover Barak’s because it’s the only way to avoid falling “…You could get killed.”

“And it’d be worth it,” and Barak only leans forwards, presses their foreheads together in a gesture just as intimate as any kiss, “because I’d die defending the best thing in my life, and that’s something that’d be impossible to regret.”

His eyes slide shut for a moment.

“…No,” he whimpers softly, helplessly with Barak’s mouth only a breath away from his, “no, it wouldn’t be worth it. It’d _never_ be worth it for somebody like me.”

There’s a long pause.

Barak steps back, leaving him bereft, the moment the horses arrive. Mounts up in silence and rides back in the direction of their ( _their_ ) house – his back just as stiff as it was before.

…He can only watch, Genesis’ reins ever so tight in his clawed hands.

 

\--

 

And he isn’t quite sure where to go after that.

Everything feels removed, which is good because if it isn’t removed it _hurts_ \- a stabbing pain in his gut every time he thinks of the look on Barak’s face when he rode away, the curve of his lips when he said such things, the warmth of his forehead pressed right against his.

…He mounts up, leads Genesis in the opposite direction with a faint shake.

The anger on Barak’s face was real, undeniably real. Whether it was at him not buying the joke (though that certainly isn’t it), or him not responding quickly enough (maybe, _maybe_ , though surely it was obvious that he would’ve kissed Barak for hours and not cared a single bit about the potential hanging), or maybe even him not seeing his apparent worth (…Definitely that).

But…

Did he mean it? That’s the proper thing, the properly important thing. Did Barak _mean_ it when he practically professed his love? Would he truly rip apart men just for saying a single uncomplimentary word to him? Does he truly consider _him_ the most handsome man he’s ever seen? Is he truly so deep that he’d consider his death an acceptable price as long as it was for _him_?

…Yes. Yes. Of course he would.

Of course Barak would kill for him. Of course Barak wouldn’t lie about being attracted to him. Of course Barak, stupidly brave Barak, would happily die for him. Of _course_ Barak has somehow ended up in love with him.

Of _course_.

…And he’s still not sure where to go.

 

\--

 

In the end he somehow finds himself, miraculously unstabbed, outside Hannah’s door again. He stares for a second. Sighs for another. Tightens his hands on Genesis’ reins yet again…

Dismounts, ties Genesis to a sturdy looking pole and picks his way over to the tiny house. Mindless of the muck coating his probably fine shoes.

Hannah, surprisingly, is the one who opens the door this time. She looks just as surprised as him for a moment – but _just_ a moment, and that is probably one of her charms, before she recovers. Steps back in the doorframe with a welcoming smile, “Brother Shardlake, this is an unexpected appearence.”

“…Yes,” he does try to manage more, honestly _does_ , but the words die a sad death upon his tongue. He can only step forward, into Hannah’s tiny house with the faintest shake.

She stares after him for a second.

Obviously, mercifully, decides that it isn’t worth pressing and follows with a cheery step, “is this a social call, or…?”

Work. Oh, yes, work. He can probably manage work, can probably manage every topic besides Barak (for the thought of the man is still a punch in the gut, a helpless thing that makes him want to sob and sing), “oh, yes… I mean no. No. I went to see your father again today.”

“Oh,” she guides him into the front room where they met earlier, gently sits him down before daring to continue “…And he upset you that much?”

“…No.” (A punch in the gut, a _whack_ \- helpless and so very potent.)

“Oh.”

They sit in unavoidable silence for a few moments more. Hannah calmly rests her hand in her lap. He stares at nothing in particular and tries not to keel over.

…But eventually _has_ to force himself to speak. For otherwise she’d ask what _had_ upset him, and he can’t even think of that question without Barak’s face coming before his eyes, Barak’s lips curving against his memory, “I asked him about the jewels. Made it the main purpose of our- my visit, in fact.”

Hannah, mercifully yet again, doesn’t push. Only nods slightly at that, keeps her hand still calmly in her lap, “and what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah,” her laugh is gentle, resigned. Like she _knew_ what’d happen but was still hoping anyway, “he just tossed more abuse at you? More insults on your manhood, intelligence and-slash-or chances of future success?”

“All of those,” he shakes his head slightly, “yes.”

“Your friend mustn’t have been pleased,” and Hannah only purses her lips in return, carries on with a casual shrug that doesn’t ask anything at all, “and you must’ve been even less joyful than him, considering that you know absolutely nothing about the jewels.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he finds himself contradicting softly, “it’d be very hard to beat Jack- Barak’s mood.”

“Us ordinary folk can always attempt,” Hannah places a soft hand on his arm – and, oh, he’s almost _forgotten_ how it is to be touched by a person who doesn’t make his every inch stand on prickling end “…Do you still want to hear the story behind the jewels or can you form your case without them?”

…He looks at her.

“An honest question, I swear.”

“Alright,” oddly enough he doesn’t doubt her, is far too removed to doubt her, as he looks back to absolutely nothing, “I’d quite like to hear it. That is, if you’re still willing to tell it.”

“How could I not be?” There are many ways she _could_ be utterly unwilling, but he chooses not to raise that as she finally removes her hand and straightens firmly up in her chair “…They were the inheritance of my mother, meant to be passed to me the day she died.”

He nods slowly.

“She died a lot earlier than she should’ve, yes, but…” Listens to her draw in a slow breath, continue determinedly anyway, “they were still mine. Meant to be passed on to the oldest daughter no matter what. An odd system of inheritance, yes, but one that’d stood for years. Apparently since the long-gone days of the conquest.”

“When William rode across with all his knights.”

“I’m descended from the lowest footman, probably the one who cut the arrow out of Harold’s festering eye,” Hannah laughs softly, humourlessly. Continues on anyway, “I was a newborn when my mother died, as I’ve already told you, and unexpected to survive for that long myself… So I suppose I can understand why my father withheld the jewels from me then. But what I cannot understand is why he continued withholding them as I got over my initial frailness and grew into a generally healthy child, and a healthy woman beyond that.”

He hesitates for an uncertain moment “…Perhaps they’re a link to the woman he lost?”

“He did love her,” Hannah admits softly, sending him an oddly guilty look “…And I would’ve been happy to share, since they were the only links the _both_ of us had left. But he would never share with a woman like me, would never trust a cripple with anything so great.”

He frowns for another moment, “unfair, then.”

“Terribly unfair,” she falls silent for about a minute in turn, slowly rises to her feet as he refocuses his eyes upon her “…May I show you something?”

He nods.

…She takes it as enough, and shuffles to a nearby wooden trunk set snugly in the corner. A bit of rummaging later, a few soft rustles, and she’s drawing back up – glittering silver and gold held firmly in her palm.

And suddenly he’s staring, sitting up in his seat with something that almost resembles interest, “are they-?”

“Yes,” two necklaces, one pair of earrings, one silver locket doubtlessly containing a picture of a woman with Hannah’s blonde hair and steady eyes, “my inheritance… That which my father tried to take from me, like I was an innocent babe who couldn’t defend herself.”

A pause.

“…He always treated me as such,” she continues bitterly, softly into the silence, “a babe, an innocent, a creature not fit to stand upon this planet. He would always hide me in my rooms, parade me to his friends only when he wanted some amusing freak to show, repress my every effort at any other time.”

Another pause.

“I suppose he always hated me for killing my mother,” as Hannah looks down, laughs humourlessly yet again, “or just hated me for being me, either way. You know what it’s like, don’t you? Despite the fact that we’re not exactly the same like so many people think. You know what it’s like to be scorned: abused, treated as if you’ve been cursed, treated as if you’re _evil_ all because of something you can’t possibly help.”

He-

…He nods.

“I don’t regret running away,” and she smiles at him – just slightly, lost in her own thoughts, “I don’t regret leaving him, I don’t regret stealing my mother’s jewels even if I hang for it. Because at least, since I made those decisions, I’ve been taken as an equal. A working woman. A person just like any other upon this earth.”

He- He-

 _He_ -

He stares at her silently, feeling like he should hang upon every single word.

“And when you’re offered a place where you can feel like that… You have to get to it no matter what it takes,” which he should, to be honest, because there’s such truth in her eyes that he feels _raw_ under it, “and when you meet a person who doesn’t care how you look, who sees only _you_ shining through, you have to keep ahold of them no matter what.”

…And there’s nothing he can say.

“Johnny never saw my arm,” not when she’s saying it all for him, with such a wise tilt of her head, “just as I’d bet that your Jack Barak doesn’t see your back.”

..He _starts_ back-

“Are you going to prosecute me?” But there are more important matters, after all, and Hannah is staring at him levelly – not pleading, not coercing. Just looking at him like they’re both stranded in exactly the same boat upon such a dark sea, “hang me in my father’s name?”

“…I’m not sure,” and he can only lie, those important matters all around and deep within as he finally clears his eyes, “I’ll have to think about it a little more before I decide.”

Or about other things, so very relevant that they almost hurt.

 

\--

 

…For should he?

Should he grasp at the man who sees only him and nothing else? Who looks at him and sees not a hunchback, a freak, an evil blot upon the world… But just a person? A person capable of loving like any other?

Should he?

Should he give himself to such a man? Throw open his heart and throw around his arms and throw his _everything_ into it? … _Show_ his everything, his every twist and turn and terribly ugly place?

…Show those things to his Barak?

 _Should_ he?

And he thinks, he _knows_ , as he raps at Barak’s door and waits for permission… That the answer will always and forever be _yes_.

 

\--

 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of his mouth the moment he comes in.

Barak, sprawling on his bed, gives him a slightly surprised look. Rises to a sitting position with one knee cradled curiously to his chest, “for…?”

“The argument,” best to be simple, quick. Before the words catch in his throat and he is left helplessly flailing before Barak’s faintly concerned eyes, “I only started it because the thought of you dead truly does _kill_ me. And even the slightest threat of it made me more terrified than I’ve ever been.”

Barak blinks, “the slightest threat-?”

“He _is_ a wealthy man, Barak,” he says despairingly, resists the urge to step forward and smooth that dark hair from his forehead, “and wealthy men have guards. If it hurts you to see me simply insulted imagine what it would’ve felt like for me to see you dragged away.”

A pause.

“It would’ve been worth it-“

“Not for _me_ ,” he interrupts, despite the fact that he _promised_ himself he wouldn’t “…Never for me, Barak. If you were killed I dare say it’d feel like a part of me had been brutally ripped away.”

And the man’s eyes widen slightly “…Oh.”

“Oh,” he sighs, with all the weight of realization “…But that’s besides the point. I came here to apologize and I _will_ apologize: I was snappy, unfair, didn’t see your point of view. And for that I am sincerely sorry.”

“…There’s no need for you to be sorry,” a long moment, and then Barak gently shakes his head and looks slowly down, “ _I’m_ the one who should be sorry for not seeing _your_ point of view. I mean, I’m in no position to lecture you about not seeing what you mean to me if I don’t see what I mean to you.”

He stares silently for a long moment, hopes that his eyes say everything.

“I just…” And are quietly encouraging, too, as Barak hesitates for yet another long moment before carrying firmly on, “I get angry sometimes. Because you don’t ever seem to see what a wonderful man you are.”

He almost remains silent-

“You think that I’m wonderful, then?” …Can’t.

“The most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” and can’t regret it. Not when it gets Barak speaking sincerely, dropping his knee and fixing him with a captivating gaze, “smart, kind, and handsome enough to regularly distract me from my very complicated work.”

He snorts softly at that… Isn’t surprised when the sound barely makes it out of his nose, considering how caught he is in Barak’s deep, deep eyes, “my back-“

“I won’t lie, and say that I fell in love with you at first sight and so never saw it,” the man replies levelly, “but I _will_ truthfully say that I haven’t seen it for at least the past month. How can I when I only see you?”

When he only sees-?

He manages a soft laugh at that, it seems appropriate, but can force absolutely nothing else. Not when Barak is staring at him in such a _way_.

“…I _did_ mean what I said.”

“I know,” and _speaking_ in such a way too. So soft and sincere that his heart feels like it could grow three sizes and explode out of his chest “…And I wasn’t loud enough about how passionately I return those feelings. Because I do, I _do_ : if I am brilliant than you are some fantastical word that hasn’t been invented yet. You are amazing, wonderful, incredibly distracting when I’m trying to get a good nights sleep.”

Barak splutters, it is somewhat gratifying to see him going slightly red.

And by somewhat he means _very_ , “I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I started that ridiculous argument… I couldn’t believe that a man as perfect as you would like, well, _me_.”

“You are-!” And Barak, despite his red face and spluttering _and_ flailing, shoots hotly to his feet-

“ _Honestly_ , Jack, you’ll be giving me a big head in the end,” he laughs softly over the man, smiles until his tense stance eases just a little bit “…I know. Or, at the very least, will try to vaguely know from this point onwards.”

“…I suppose that’s good enough.”

“Only almost,” he allows the smile that succeeded the laugh, half nervous and half _painfully_ sincere, to remain – even if shakily upon his face “…We’re alright, then?”

Barak studies him for a long second, and he almost wonders… “More than alright.”

 _Almost_. For the beam that follows the smile is large enough to have been building for a while – building and bubbling and rising up until it takes over his entire face and makes him feel slightly faint with joy.

…And other things.

“Sir?” Barak’s face is concerned, making a good go at gentle as he hurries a concerned step forward “…Matthew, you’re grinning like an absolute loon-“

‘I feel like one,’ he wants to laugh easily.

…He _can’t_ laugh easily, not now they’ve made up (not now when _other_ matters can resume), “do you remember what you asked me a few days ago, Jack?”

“I…” Ah, and his concerned frown is so endearing. Would send a lazy wave of heat through him if it wasn’t for the thing in his gut approaching screecjomg terror, “I don’t know, I dare say that I’ve asked you many things in the past two to seven days. Which one do you-?”

“You asked- said that you’d been working for me for two months and you still hadn’t seen me with my shirt off,” he interrupts, not levelly at all but completely uncaring of the fact, “you sounded rather disappointed at that.”

…And Barak freezes. Sharply, hopefully, “oh.”

“Do you still feel that disappointment?”

“Yes-“ Barak halts himself again, blue eyes going wide and slightly panicked, “I mean- I _mean_ -“

“Yes?” He half repeats, half asks quietly. Hands already going (shakily) to the buttons of his doublet – worn and old and definitely ratty, but still the finest thing he’s ever owned.

“…Yes.”

…And he closes his eyes.

And quickly starts upon his buttons, top to bottom - in the opposite way to what he usually does in the morning. The fine doublet, he wanted to impress Barak, is soon undone and slipping off his shoulders. He shucks it easily, tosses it casually in the corner and starts on the plain white shirt with not a moment wasted.

…Oh, and he has never stripped so before another person before. And never will again. And never _wants_ to again.

And so he shakes, as he carefully undoes his shirt and exposes his chest. First collarbone, then sparse brown hair not _yet_ lightening to grey, then nipples slightly peaked due to either cold or lavish attention, then far too lean stomach, then trail of hair leading ever downwards, _then_ -

He pauses for a long moment, when he reaches the end of the road. Keeps his eyes closed but is still _well_ aware of Barak across the room, fixed upon him like he’s something special, something grand.

Something…

He gulps, softly. Spins around on his heel and shucks off his shirt, tosses it in the same direction as his doublet… Leaves himself bare, watched, _open_.

There’s a long pause.

He hears one wonderfully eager footstep, isn’t quite sure _how_ to feel when Barak obviously holds himself back from taking another, “may I-?”

…Oh, yes, he obviously feels _impatient_. That’s a new one, “be my guest.”

There’s another long pause.

And then the fast, _desperate_ , hurry of footsteps. Battered fingers slowly tracing their way down his bare spine, making him shudder and fight the urge to arch away (arch back, into that captivating heat that’s already making him feel so very weak).

Was that a feather light kiss, pressed to the back of his neck…?

“You really are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” that was _definitely_ a slightly harder kiss pressed between his shoulder blades, desperate and intimate and actually _loving_ , “and I’ve seen a lot of men.”

And he _wants_ to sarcastically snap, ‘flattering.’

…But, well, that’d actually be _true_ \- and his mouth is _rather_ too busy as he spins around and downright _throws_ himself into Barak’s warm and welcoming and _wonderful_ arms.

 

\--

 

And the kiss is everything, _everything_ , he ever dreamed it’d be. His arms tight around Barak’s neck, Barak’s hands resting firmly on his bare waist, their lips _meeting_ in a way that has his every patch of skin thrumming - _throbbing_ like he’s about to explode or melt or do something else that he wouldn’t at all care about.

Barak tilts his head, slowly moves his lips-

And, yes, he wouldn’t care at _all_ even if the whole _world_ fell apart around them – for their tongues are tangling, and Barak’s teeth are gently sinking into his bottom lip whenever they can, and- _and_ -

“Fuck,” Barak rumbles, and he neatly swallows the groan before it can burst out into air, “ _fuck_ …”

“You,” he says primly, licking his lips to check that every trace is gone, “are wearing _far_ too many clothes.”

The tumble to the bed, for it is indeed a _tumble_ , is a happy blur of limbs after that. Somewhere along the way Barak is ripped out of his shirt, he loses his hose, Barak’s hose ends up torn and tattered upon the floor, he ends up gasping as hard nails dig into his bare hip-

And he straddles Barak on the bed, the both of them naked. Sits back smugly and _hisses_ as his cock scrapes slowly along that firm belly.

“Gorgeous” …Blushes, as Barak looks up at him with _such_ adoration in his eyes.

“Shut up,” and, so, just has to _grumble_ \- bobbing quickly back down to cover that smirk with his barely repressed one, “do you have anything we can use to ease the way?”

“Ease the way…?”

“I-“ He stops, blushes bright red… Oh, and it goes all the way down to highlight his steadily hardening cock. How deeply and utterly _lovely_ , “is this the point where I’m supposed to say that I want you inside me? Because if I _have_ to I’ll end up feeling faintly ridiculous, and-“

“You’re babbling and the picture is gotten,” Barak mercifully, _maddeningly_ as he traces one teasing hand across his cock, interrupts, “there’s some under the pillow.”

“You debauched scion of lechery,” he chuckles, pauses for a moment, “under your-?”

Barak, mercifully yet again (he’d almost suggest monkhood, but _no_ ), is already reaching under his pillow. Drawing out a tiny pot that looks vaguely like something from the shelves lining Guy’s rooms.

…He won’t ask.

 _Especially_ as Barak dips his fingers into that pot and draws them out sticky, slowly slides them between his thighs in a way that makes him feel tense and hot and glorious and _fuck_ at the same time.

…Okay, maybe that last one isn’t even a valid emotion. But it’s _very_ hard to summon up anything else as Barak slowly slides a first finger inside him, gently exploring as he first tenses and then determinedly tries to _ease_ (for that makes things, erm, _easier_ \- or so he’s always heard).

A second finger is carefully added, slightly less deep and slightly more probing and _definitely_ more cautious. As he tries to ease yet again-

“Fuck” …Maybe not so successfully, judging by the expression (torn roughly between amused and aroused) on Barak’s sweating face, “you’re so fucking _tight_ , fuck. You’re going to feel absolutely _glorious_.”

…He hesitates for a second, despite the fact that he doesn’t really mean or _want_ to with those two fingers still moving steadily inside him, “this won’t hurt, will-?”

-And Barak’s fingers hit a certain spot behind him and _fuckfuckfuckchristfuckchristfuckingchristohGodFuck!_

“…Only when I thrust in,” Barak is saying when he dazedly comes back to himself, unsurprised to find his nails embedded in the man’s collarbone, “and not for long after that.”

“Okay,” he huffs, still feeling a little as if his body has been set on fire.

“Okay-?”

“ _Please_ ” …Or dumped in a forest fire. A burning, crashing, seething _inferno_ that can’t be stopped until it’s swallowed its fill and a few generally innocent villages along the way (morbid, he knows but _doesn’t damn well care_ ).

(…As Barak answers his plea.)

And Barak _answers_ his plea, and gently moves him down his body – pausing briefly to slick up before-

Ouch.

Okay, okay. He wasn’t actually lying about the pain. He makes a face for a moment, digs his nails back into Barak’s collarbone as he gets used to the strange pressure, the odd _push_ at his most intimate of places. He, naturally, finds himself resisting for a second-

And then Barak’s cock slides fully in.

…Oh.

“Are you alright?” The- _his_ man asks tenderly, looking up at him in a way that desperately strives to light every single fire all over again, “do you-?”

“Yes,” he’s not sure what he’s answering, but… “ _Yes_.”

And his back is vaguely grumbling. And the air is catching in his lungs again. And his nails _must_ be hurting poor Barak beneath him. And the feeling of a cock buried deep inside him is possibly the strangest feeling he’s ever felt-

And he slowly starts to rock on top of Barak, assuming that the very _basest_ strategies will work just the same as they do with women. Is gratified when Barak quickly responds, lifting his hips and setting a slow and steady pace. Starts to feel a certain pleased prickle, running up and down his arms as Barak groans beneath him…

 _Shrieks_ , as that certain spot inside him is sweetly brushed against yet again.

…And things, he’s happy to admit, go rather quickly after that.

 

\--

 

“When did you start liking me?”

“Oh God,” Barak says affectionately, running a soft hand down his naked arm, “are we going to do _that_?”

“What?”

“ _That_ soppy shit.”

It’s the morning after, or somewhere vaguely near the morning after judging by the light filtering in through the curtains. They’re still all tangled in Barak’s bed, his face snuggled against that now scratched collarbone and Barak’s arm a reassuring weight around him.

“It was an honest question, I assure you,” he chides, though doesn’t bother to keep a smile from his face (it’s rather too late to hide anything here, after all), “for scientific interest.”

“Scientific interest?”

“If that’s what they’re calling it now.”

Barak laughs softly at that, resumes gently stroking his arm – a warm pressure that makes him want to shut his eyes and purr like a cat, “I suppose… It was the first time we went down the Wentworth’s well.”

He shifts, presses lazily up to drop a kiss against the line of Barak’s jaw, “when we almost got caught?”

“Yes,” the rumble of Barak’s laugh against his lips is intoxicating, he wants it against him every moment of the day (or as many moments as he can manage, and he _fully_ intends to push himself), “you look so _attractive_ when you’re flustered…”

He coughs.

“…Like now.”

“You, Jack Barak,” he coughs again, presses another kiss a little higher on Barak’s jaw and _smirks_ , “are a shameless flatterer who deserves to be put in the stocks.”

“Something for another day, hm?”

He laughs, mock scandalized, at the promise in Barak’s words – gently smacks his ribs (…And keeps his hand there afterwards, wonderfully warm on naked flesh).

“…What about you?”

“Me?” He asks mischievously, daring to drop a little _nip_ where his next kiss should’ve gone (daring to fan out his fingers, and gently tickle his Barak), “oh, I never fell in love. This is either lust or humouring your strange desires, I haven’t decided- ah!”

“You deserved that,” Barak snorts, lifting his hand up from his arse again, “for not doing the decent thing after _I_ bared my heart…”

“ _Fine_ ,” he grins, hides it into Barak’s collarbone again, “I suppose it was also some time in those terrible two weeks, or possibly when I saw you again after our far too long separation, or _possibly_ when I starting coming to fantasies of you instead of any available ladies.”

He traces Barak’s growing blush with his tongue, waits… “You’re not sure, then?”

“I only _truly_ realized when Hannah threw it in my face,” he admits, lays a sincerely apologetic kiss on the top of Barak’s chest, “mainly because I was an obstinate, oblivious, utterly awful _fool_ … Forgive me?”

“For anything up to and including murder,” Barak purrs gallantly, and swoops down to press a warm kiss against his forehead (one that has him actually _sighing_ in pleasure, like some utter and complete moron) “…Do we still have to see her arsehole of a father today?”

“I-“

“Couldn’t we just stay in bed?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighs, reaching out to trail his fingers teasingly around one of Barak’s nipples (one that he sincerely _hopes_ to be wrapping his mouth around in due course), “but we’ll able to be get back to bed soon enough, don’t worry.”

…Barak still only grunts.

“Besides,” and so he just _has_ to sit up, to awkwardly swing his leg over and straddle the man’s bare chest yet again, “we still have a _few_ hours before we have to meet him, don’t we…?”

And it really is _gratifying_ to see how easily convinced Barak is.

 

\--

 

Getting out of bed is almost _impossible_ when the time finally comes.

“Barak-“ It’s too warm, far too warm, far too _perfect_. His mind may comprehend his purpose (…Barely), but his body is helplessly _stuck_. Unwilling to face the outside world of cold and _clothes_ when it has the perfect inside world of warmth and nudity all around it.

“Forget handsome,” it’s fortunate that Barak has a ( _little_ , judging by the reluctant tense of his muscles) more control of his body. Or else neither of them would be hauling up at all, “you, sir, are absolutely _adorable_.”

…He feels a renewed wave of heat at the _sir_ , firmly decides to ignore it for just this moment.

Breakfast is consumed quickly, perhaps a little _too_ quickly considering their dallying ( _despite_ any and all hauling action). An apple, some largely unremarkable meat, a jug of ale to quench his first – all of them largely tasteless, he’s faintly ashamed to admit.

…Or would be faintly ashamed to admit, if he wasn’t too busy gazing at Barak and the buttoning of his shirt.

“Adorable,” and the wide and teasing smile upon his face, as the man rises and darts over for a quick kiss once everything has been swallowed (gulped ( _inhaled_ )) down. 

The ride to the inn is slow, boring apart from the continuing (dangerous) urge to reach out and hold Barak’s hand (apart from the continuing (definitely dangerous) urge to climb up a building and sing his adoration from the rooftops)… And he restrains himself, settles for silly smiles across every chance he has instead.

Barak still returns those, after all.

“Watch those hangings, I wouldn’t want you to crack your head open after all the time I’ve spent training you” …And gives him an opportunity to cheerfully mock, as he leads Genesis ever onwards with a grin that’s probably about to split his face like a beam of sun through rainy clouds.

Skermer is sullenly glaring in the middle of the courtyard when they enter, his arms crossed and his face red enough to resemble a tomato-

-A tomato that changes nothing! Heh. He dismounts easily, hands his reins to the readily waiting boy and fondly watches Barak do the same.

“Ah” …Skermer, of course, only starts speaking the moment _Barak’s_ feet hit the floor – grumbling and sniffing and generally resembling a rather unattractive beast from the king’s menagerie (tut tut), “so the cripple and his stupid friend finally arrive, ready to torture me with yet more dumb-“

Almost a _pity_ he isn’t in the mood for beasts today, “no.” 

There’s a pause.

“…What?”

“No,” especially not beasts who so desperately need repetition, the slow arch of his eyebrow as he wanders a few casual steps closer (well aware of Barak’s shocked expression at his side, the soft shift and steady frown), “I’m not representing you any longer, Mr. Skermer. On further consideration I’ve found that your daughter is absolutely and undeniably in the right.”

Oh, _oh_ \- and the beast is _spluttering_ now! Face somehow going redder as he flails his meaty arms, “but- but-“

“But?” He probes wearily.”

“-But the bitch stole my jewels!”

“She didn’t. And they were not _your_ jewels to steal, Mr. Skermer,” she did, but the second part is true enough to let the lie stand, “they were hers. And, so, even if she had taken them she would’ve been perfectly in the right and simply claiming her illegally restricted inheritance.”

“You don’t fucking-!”

“I most certainly _do_ believe it, Mr. Skermer,” he continues, so level he could practically form a table, “and, in fact, am barely holding myself back from believing that the restriction of her inheritance in the first place was not an act of theft.”

Skermer starts to protest… Halts, redness swiftly turning to a sickly shade of white.

“Yes,” under his firm eye, and Barak’s proud glower (oh, the man _does_ catch on fast) still at his side, “an act punishable by hanging, or pressing, or more terrible punishments that I _will_ have to take the time to think up.”

Another pause. A happily choking one.

“…So this is how it works, then?” Just as choking as Skermer’s voice when he speaks, scratchily as if somebody has just pressed their hands to his neck and _pushed_ , “I let you into my house, my life, and you betray me-?”

“Yes,” the answer is simple, “though it’s hardly a betrayal, I will be honest. I’m not sure if you _can_ betray a man so stupid.”

“You dare call me stupid-!” The red is back.

“Again, it’s hardly an act of daring,” the red is gone, as he slowly tilts his head and takes another threatening step forwards, “I may have a crooked back, Mr. Skermer, but my mind is in perfect working order. I am a lawyer, a servant of London and justice. I know bits of Latin, bits of Hebrew, bits of many other languages that you’ve probably never heard of. I win most of my cases, have a reputation for honest dealing, help all clients of mine that deserve to be helped. I have been able to run my own household for many years now. And, above all those, I know how to make and keep my friends.”

…Skermer has been stunned to silence.

“…No matter who they may be. No matter if they’re over-ardent reformers, former monks or women with twisted arms,” and he takes a step back, confident that his work has been done, “I keep them. And you may think me mentally deficient, Mr. Skermer, you may think me the biggest fool in England – but I have accomplished all that and you have not a thing to show.”

“I-“

“Only servants who hate you, lost jewellery and a daughter who never wants to see your face again,” and he takes another step back, until he’s standing firmly at Barak’s side, “ _nothing_.”

“…I-“

“And here’s a tip, though I doubt that you’ll ever need it in the future,” he glances briefly across at Barak, smiles just slightly, “when you truly love someone you don’t make them feel like nothing, you don’t drive them away. When you _truly_ love someone you tell them they mean the world to you every day… And mean it with all your heart or else justifiably drive them away.”

…There is utter silence this time. Skermer’s fat face is pale, shaking and almost tearful.

“Good day, Mr Skermer” …And he turns away, raises his chin high, “we _won’t_ be meeting again.”

 

\--

 

They watch Skermer go, slumping under the weight of his expectations, silently and together. Side by side as the man quietly mounts his horse and disappears off to stew in his own messes.

…He only turns back to Barak with a wide smile once every sign of him is completely _gone_ , bouncing slightly on his heels as he takes the man's expression happily in, “well?”

Barak simply grins in return at, just as wide and _just_ as bright.

“…You mean the world to me,” they say, at exactly the same time – the words tangling together until the most eagle eared man could ride by and not hear a single incriminating thing.

And there’s a moment of hesitation…

Except that’s a _lie_ , and a bare faced one at that. For life is far too short and Barak is far too close and it’s _far_ too late to hide anything now (not after last night, when they were so close together). Barak _immediately_ grabs his arm, laughs merrily, _drags_ him into a shadowed corner where nobody could possibly see.

And the following kiss is, of course, _divine_.

“Home now?” As is the longing in Barak’s voice, wrecked and so very desperate as he reaches those tanned hands tenderly up to frame his face, “please?”

And, of course…

“Yes,” he smiles sincerely, and arches up on his toes for another brief and _beautiful_ kiss.

…He _knows_ what his answer is always going to be.


End file.
